Chapter 1 Chapter 1
Author’s Note
If you’ve made it here from Book One… thank you.
Publishing a story has been a dream of mine since I was a kid, and seeing Lola and Enzo’s chaos resonate with so many of you has been absolutely surreal. The love that first book received? Wild. The hate? Also wild. I honestly wasn’t sure I’d continue.
But this sequel exists because of the readers who got these two—who rooted for them, screamed with them, laughed at their wreckage, and claimed them as fiercely as I did. This was my first project of this scale, and yes, things shifted, grew, and got a little messy along the way… but I’m still proud of it. Proud of them. Proud that you’re still here.
This book is for you.
Thank you for walking back into the fire with me.
I’ll post chapters as soon as they’re ready, so hang in there with me. ❤️
Side note: If you prefer a more “traditional” writing format, this story might feel different. I grew up obsessed with Ellen Hopkins, and if her books taught me anything, it’s that breaking the shape of a page can change the entire heartbeat of a story. 💋
⚠️ Trigger Warnings
Accidentally Yours, Still contains mature content and themes that may be distressing to some readers, including:
Kidnapping and captivity
Psychological manipulation
Medical restraint and lab-style environments
Torture (non-graphic & graphic implications)
Violence, murder, and on-page death
Self-sacrifice themes
Power imbalances
Sexual content intertwined with dark themes
Obsession, possessiveness, and unhealthy relationship dynamics
Betrayal by trusted individuals
Fire, destruction, and warfare
Brief references to childhood exploitation
This book is a dark romance featuring morally gray characters, intense emotional themes, and scenes intended to provoke discomfort as part of the narrative.
Reader discretion is strongly advised.
Ready?
Chapter One
Lola
White, the smug kind.
Ceiling. Walls. Floor.
Too bright, too clean, too pleased with itself for passing inspection. Bleach in the vents, steel humming like it wants applause. Even the hum sounds arrogant like it expects gratitude for sterilizing the air. A black chair holds her in the center straps neat, leather soft, buckles quiet. Considerate, which is its own kind of cruel. Across the room, a counter of stainless and shine: scalpels, clamps, tidy rows like a boutique for civilized harm. The light eats color. Even her reflection in the metal looks gray. The cold radiates from the floor, creeping up her bare ankles until her toes curl on instinct; too clean, too quiet. This is what guilt looks like when it can afford a decorator.
I hate tidy. The real monsters are always tidy. Control freaks with bleach and God complexes.
Her tongue tasted metal and detergent. A memory rose, the wrong kind and she pressed it back down with a breath through her nose. Bleach and lies same brand, different bottle.
The door opened like it knew it would be obeyed.
He was older. Not by much. Silver at the temples, a new line carved into a jaw that was always too proud, the same pale eyes that thought everything was a ledger. The suit bespoke, the posture worse: the room is mine, the air is mine, the outcome is already mine.
“Lola,” he said, that smooth museum-voice trying to curate reality. “At last.”
She smiled as if she’d found exactly what she ordered. “Oh, sweet Lucy. There you are.”
A small catch in his chest. He ironed it flat. “Lucian.”
“Mmh. That’s what you told me last time.”
“You remember.”
“How many field trips come with a sales pitch?” She tilted her head. “Marble, perfume, shoes squeaking, a man saying my name like he’d already stamped it.”
He didn’t look at the mirror; he looked at her. “You were nine.”
“And you were what practicing being your father?” she said. “You did the tour well. You just didn’t have the authority yet.”
A beat. He accepted the hit and decided not to bleed.
“My father did the contracts,” he said mildly. “I run the house now.”
“Condolences on the promotion,” she said. “He pass you the key or just the habit?”
He circled once. Not a shark too self-aware for that. A docent. He kept his hands politely off the straps, as if not touching her were the same as restraint. “Let’s be clear,” he said. “You were purchased. The Academy secured your placement, your education, your safety. You ran.”
“Correction,” she said, friendly as weather. “A man bought a child. Turns out, I don’t stay where I’m put.”
His eyes flicked over her like a scanner reading damaged property. “Fifteen years. Then you walk in.”
“I hate being hunted,” she said. “So I came to collect the hounds.”
“You think that’s what we are?”
“I think you’re wearing deodorant over rot,” she said. “Lucy, this place reeks of repentance.” Her eyes swept the corners. “You scrub the floors like guilt’s contagious.”
His mouth almost curved. It didn’t. “You belong to me.”
“Oh sweetie,” she said, “you're not enough man to make such a claim.”
He stepped closer, the cologne was eucalyptus and money. “We are reclaiming an asset.”
“You hide behind procedure,” she said. “Dress cruelty up in policy, then invoice the cleanup.” Her smile was small and mean. “Call it whatever you want, Lucy it still bleeds.”
He blinked once, slow. “You exaggerate,” he said, calm again. “The Academy refines talent. Gives lost potential direction.”
“It puts a leash on the gifted and calls it purpose.” She glanced at the tray. “Tell me, do you sort the scissors by morality?”
He let that pass. He was here to savor. “You’ll find cooperation earns comfort.”
“Define comfort. Pillows? Or just prettier chains?”
“You always did make ugliness sound clever.”
“That’s because you keep dressing harm in lab coats,” she said. “I’m just reading the label out loud.”
He placed a fingertip on the back of the chair—polite, possessive, certain. “You’re here to be unmade and reforged, Lola.”
“Then pray your fire’s hotter than mine,” she answered.
He stood in front of her, finally close enough to count his lashes. “We can do this the easy way.”
“Lucy,” she said softly, “now where would the fun be in that?”
That earned it—a small flash in his eyes. The polish slipped. Something hungry blinked through and then remembered itself.
“You learned to talk,” he said.
“Oh, talking isn't the problem Lucy,” she said. “It's getting me to stop that you'll find is the issue.”
“You ran from salvation.”
“I ran from a man who called a leash salvation.”
“You think this is still about that day,” he said. “It’s about potential misused.”
“Misused,” she repeated, like tasting something too sweet. “That’s the word you use when a person refuses to be obedient.”
Silence settled and hummed, the vents sighing like nervous lungs.
He chose a new angle. “Tell me about Enzo Marchesi.”
A single beat of pulse under her skin. She let it pass. Don’t give him the song—give him the echo.
“What do you want to know?”
“Why he makes you louder.”
“Because he doesn’t confuse quiet with safety.” She tipped her chin. “Because he doesn’t need me small to love me.”
“So he’s your weakness.”
“No,” she said, tone easy but eyes razor-bright. “He’s the reason I stopped shrinking myself to fit places I was never meant to fit.”
A pause. “That’s what you never figured out, Lucy—real love doesn’t soften you. It steadies the aim.”
That landed: a ripple under glass, but it landed. His nostrils flared, too quick to hide.
“You talk like this to everyone?” he asked.
“Yeah Lucy, pretty much. Sometimes it's worse,” she said.
He stepped closer again; the obsession showed now, thin as a wire under the skin. “I could take it all out,” he said softly. “The fear. The roots. The memory that keeps you from being useful.”
“You mean the spine?” she said. “That’s welded.”
“Useful,” he repeated. “To something more than your appetites.”
“Oh, we’re talking appetites,” she said brightly. “How brave.”
The jaw tightened. The polite smile returned. “We’ll begin with intake. Vitals, baselines, simple answers. Composure earns accommodation. Defiance earns … longer conversations.”
“You do love your euphemisms,” she said. “What’s the one for dog collar? ‘Leadership seminar’?”
“You’re reckless, Lola.”
“No,” she said. “I’m bored.”
“You don’t frighten me.”
“I’m not aiming for fright. I’m aiming for consequences.”
He looked over her shoulder at nothing and everything—the performance of a man in charge of a system—and when he looked back, he’d decided to be kind. “You can still be saved.”
“By you?” she said. “Lucy, you can barely keep yourself from vibrating.”
He actually smiled. Quick. Crooked. Human and terrible. “I wondered if you’d notice.”
“I notice when men want something too much,” she said. “They start mistaking the room for consent.”
He absorbed it. He was very good at absorbing. He set a scalpel down with careful fingers, like not making noise was the same as not being dangerous. “You’re going to work with us,” he said, final as a signature.
“You’re going to find synonyms for ‘no’ exhausting,” she said.
“Last chance to be sensible.”
“Sensible’s for people who don’t know the exits.”
“Do you?” he asked.
She glanced at the vents (new filters), the mirrored panel (not a wall), the false door to her right (a liar), the camera tucked into the corner (his favorite angle; it shaves the jaw). She didn’t gift him the map. She gifted him a smile.
“Enough,” he said.
“Of what?”
“Amateur theater.” He gestured toward the door with a hand that wanted to be a blade. “You’ll meet my team. Boundaries, expectations, tolerances.”
“Sounds like a book club,” she said. “More importantly, will there be snacks?”
He didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. He’d rehearsed the next twenty minutes all week. He’d been waiting for her voice to fill the white room so he could cut it to size. He turned for the door.
Lola tilted her head, studying him the way you look at an insect that thinks it invented crawling. “You know what I always hated about your kind, Lucy?”
He didn’t take the bait—not out loud. A flick of the eyes—that’s all she needed. “You polish everything,” she said. “The floors, the words, the stories. Even your guilt gets a wax coat.” Her smile sharpened. “I was nine when I learned that people can sound rich while selling their kid. You were there. You shook my hand. I remember the gloves.” That landed. Quick and clean. Lucian’s composure stuttered for half a breath—something bitter flickered and vanished behind his eyes. She leaned back against the straps, casual, like this was brunch. “Tell me, Lucy. When you walk those same halls now, do they still smell like bleach and moral superiority?”
He inhaled once, slow, controlled, but it still came out wrong.
“Enjoy your nostalgia,” she said sweetly. “I’ll make sure you choke on it later.”
He paused at the door, hand white-knuckled on the handle. “Don’t call me that again.”
“Sure thing, Lucy,” she said, smiling just enough to twist the knife.
“You’ll still hear it in your sleep.”
The door slammed. Lola’s grin lingered, slow and feral. “Aww,” she murmured to the empty room, “he thinks we’re done.”
Round one and I didn’t even stretch. Lola: 1. Lucy: 0. Suck it, nerd.