Chapter 30 Chapter 30
Valentina
Lunch with Violeta was loud in the way only she could manage.
"I'm telling you now," she said, rolling her eyes, "I won't let him fix me into any ridiculous alliance. I'm not a chess piece. He can glare all he wants I'll stare right back."
I smiled into my drink, shaking my head. That was Violeta. Fearless. Unapologetic. The only one of us who could look our father dead in the eye and not flinch.
"You always do," I said softly. "He hates that."
Violeta snorted. "At least I'm better than Viviana who wouldn't say a word to defend herself to father. Apparently fictional men are more interesting than real people."
Viviana had always been like that lost in her books, content to observe the world from a safe distance. Sometimes I envied her for it.
The conversation drifted back to our father his control, his expectations, the way he spoke as if our lives were projects he could manage. I listened more than I spoke, stirring my food, nodding along. My thoughts, traitorous as ever, wandered.
I hadn't planned to say anything. I told myself I wouldn't.
But the words slipped out anyway.
"Vi," I said, keeping my tone casual, eyes fixed on my plate. "What would you think... if someone was married, but felt drawn to someone else?"
She paused mid-bite.
Slowly, she set her fork down and looked at me. "That's specific."
I shrugged, forcing a lightness I didn't feel. "Just hypothetical."
"Mm-hmm." She leaned back, studying me. "Depends. Is the marriage a choice or a cage?"
The question landed heavier than I expected.
"And the attraction?" she continued. "Is it harmless? Or does it make her feel seen?"
My throat tightened. I hated how easily she was peeling me open without even trying.
"I guess," I said carefully, "it makes her feel alive. But guilty."
Violeta's expression softened. "Then I'd say she's human." She reached across the table, tapping my hand. "Desire doesn't ask for permission, Val. And happiness doesn't wait for the perfect moment."
I looked up at her lifting a brow. "So you wouldn't judge her?"
"Judge?" She scoffed. "I'd ask why she's denying herself something that clearly matters."
I nodded, my chest aching with too many unsaid things. I didn't tell her who I was really talking about.
But as the noise of the restaurant faded into the background, I knew one thing with unsettling clarity.
Whatever this was inside me, it wasn't going away. And no amount of pretending would make it disappear.
I came down the stairs feeling lighter than I had in days. The weekend outside with my sister had done something good for me.
My throat was dry, so I headed straight for the kitchen. I opened the fridge, grabbed a bottle of water, and took a long drink, leaning against the counter as the coolness settled me. I was just about to put the bottle back when Mira walked in.
She didn't say anything just glanced at me, then went to the fridge. She took out a bottle of water, closed the door, and walked past me.
I thought that was it. "What exactly is going on between you and Lucien?"
My heart dropped so hard I felt it in my stomach. For a split second, panic flared hot and sharp. Did she see something? Notice something? Hear something she wasn't supposed to?
I forced my face to stay calm, my grip tightening slightly around the bottle in my hand.
"I don't know what you're talking about," I said, keeping my tone even.
Mira took a step closer.
"You know exactly what I'm talking about," she said quietly. "So I'll ask again. What is going on between you and Lucien?"
I swallowed and lifted my chin, meeting her gaze.
"Why would you even think something is going on between us?" I asked, carefully. "He's my stepson. I'm married to his father."
Her lips curved not a smile, not quite a smirk either.
"And yet," she said, "people don't look at each other the way he looks at you for no reason."
My pulse thudded in my ears.
"You're imagining things," I replied, though my voice wasn't as steady as I wanted it to be. "Lucien is... intense with everyone."
Mira studied me for a long moment, like she was weighing how far to push.
"Maybe," she said slowly. "Or maybe you think I'm blind."
The silence between us stretched, thick and uncomfortable.
Finally, she took a step back, twisting open her bottle. "Just be careful, Valentina," she added, her voice softer but no less serious. "This house isn't kind to secrets."
She took a sip of her water, then walked out of the kitchen, leaving me frozen in place my heart racing, my mind spiraling.
Because the worst part wasn't her suspicion. It was the terrifying thought that she might not be wrong.
I’d been staring at the same page for too long, pretending to read while my mind replayed last night on a loop Mira’s voice, the question she’d thrown at me so casually it had felt like a knife.
What exactly is going on between you and Lucien?
The door to my office opened without a knock.
I felt him the way I always did like the air shifted, like my body reacted before my mind caught up. But I didn’t raise my head. I kept my eyes on the file, turning a page that didn’t need turning.
“Why didn’t you pick up my call?” Lucien asked.
His voice was calm. Too calm. The kind that carried weight.
My fingers tightened slightly around the folder. I bit my bottom lip, then forced myself to breathe evenly.
“I was busy,” I said, not looking at him. “I had meetings.”
A lie. Or at least, not the whole truth.
I’d seen his missed call. His message too. I’d stared at my phone for a long time before placing it face down, telling myself I needed space. Telling myself I was married. Telling myself that whatever fire existed between us was already burning too close to everything I could lose.
“You’re lying,” he said quietly.
I finally looked up and immediately regretted it.
He was closer than I expected, seated now, his body angled toward mine, eyes dark and intent. There was no anger there. Just that familiar intensity. That look that made my pulse forget its rhythm.
“I’m not,” I said, though my voice wasn’t as steady as I wanted it to be.
Lucien leaned forward slightly. One of his hands came to rest on the edge of my desk, close enough that I could feel the warmth of him without him touching me.
“I called because I couldn’t stop thinking about you,” he said. “And you ignore me?”
My heart kicked hard against my ribs.
“Lucien…” I warned softly, glancing toward the door.
His mouth curved just a little. Not a smile. Something darker.
“You think I care?” he murmured.
His fingers brushed my wrist barely there, innocent enough to look accidental, but deliberate enough to make my breath hitch. My pen slipped from my fingers, clattering softly against the desk.
I sucked in a sharp breath, hating how easily my body betrayed me.
“I can’t stay away,” he continued, his thumb tracing a slow, grounding circle against my skin. “No matter how much I try.”
My shoulders tensed. “You shouldn’t say things like that.”
“And yet,” he said, leaning closer, his voice dropping, “you’re still here. Letting me touch you.”
My pulse roared in my ears. I told myself to pull away. I told myself to stand up, to tell him to leave.
Instead, my hand turned slightly under his, my fingers curling before I could stop myself.
God help me.
His touch slid from my wrist to my forearm, slow and possessive, sending heat spiraling through me. My thoughts scattered, every carefully built wall crumbling under the weight of him being this close.
“You feel it too,” he said softly, like it was a fact, not a question. “Don’t pretend you don’t.”
I closed my eyes for half a second just long enough to lose.
When I opened them, I was already melting, already leaning into him despite every reason screaming that I shouldn’t.
“This is a bad idea,” I whispered.
His thumb stilled, then pressed gently into my skin. “So was the first time,” he said. “And you still came back.”