Chapter 16: 16

Halo

Lucian wore the most neutral expression I’d ever seen.

Not cold.

Not angry.

Just… blank.

But when I stepped into the dining room, I could swear I saw it, a faint red imprint on his cheek, the shape of my hand.

Or maybe I was imagining it.

Maybe I wanted to believe I left a mark.

Dinner was already being served when I took my seat.

I forced myself to breathe, to stay still, to act normal.

“Good evening,” I said, my voice even, pretending like nothing had happened just minutes ago.

He didn’t respond.

Didn’t even look at me.

Just sat there, calm and composed, as if I didn’t exist at all.

And somehow… that silence was louder than any insult he could have thrown at me.

The sight of the food made my stomach twist.

It looked delicious, probably some gourmet spread: creamy mashed potatoes, honey-glazed chicken, a rich vegetable medley arranged like a painting on fine china. The kind of meal that would have people groaning with pleasure.

But to me? It might as well have been poison.

I swallowed hard and forced down three tiny bites. Chewed slowly. Carefully. What looked like three bites to anyone else was just one, dragged out.

My throat burned.

“I’m done,” I said softly, pushing back my chair. “Thank you for the meal.”

I stood.

But Lucian’s voice cut through the quiet like a blade.

“Sit.”

I froze.

“I want you in my office by 8:30,” he said, eyes locked on mine, that cold glare back in full force. “Am I clear?”

I nodded, swallowing whatever words tried to rise.

Very clear.

I wore something baggy, an oversized hoodie I’d stolen from Panda a while ago, and loose black sweats that sagged a little at the waist. It wasn’t about comfort. It was about disappearing.

At exactly 8:30, I left my room.

Some of the maids gave me directions, their eyes flicking over me with the kind of pity that made my skin itch. Eventually, I found his office, the tall mahogany door towering like a warning.

I knocked. Once.

Then entered.

Lucian was seated at his desk, hands folded in front of him, eyes locked on me like a weapon being aimed.

“You’re late,” he said, voice low and cold.

“I…” I wanted to argue, say it was barely a minute, explain how big the damn house was, but the words fizzled. I was too tired.

Too hollow.

“Come here.”

My heart thudded, but I moved. Slowly. Hesitantly.

As soon as I got close enough, he grabbed me, his hand closing around my neck, not tight enough to choke, but firm enough to make me freeze.

Then his other hand lifted.

I flinched, my whole body tensing in preparation for impact.

But it didn’t come.

Instead, I opened my eyes to find his face inches from mine, fury simmering behind his cold gaze.

“If you ever hit me again,” he said through clenched teeth, “I will beat you to a pulp. No one hits me. You hear me?”

I nodded, breath shallow, throat dry.

He held my gaze for a second longer before shoving me back, not hard, but enough to unbalance me.

“You think your little tantrums mean anything to me?” he asked. “You think slapping me will make me care?”

I didn’t answer.

Because deep down… maybe I had hoped it would.

“You acted like I killed your mother,” he continued, tone sharp.

“Don’t mention my mother,” I said quietly, my fists clenching at my sides. “Curse me out. Punish me. Do whatever you want. But keep my mother’s name out of your mouth.”

He let out a low, cruel chuckle and leaned back against the desk.

“Why is an orphan so bothered about a mother he never met?” he taunted, eyes gleaming. “Or wait…” He tilted his head slightly, lips curling. “Did you think Marilyn was your mother?”

Then he burst into laughter, cold and hollow.

“Pathetic.”

My chest ached, but I held my ground. “If you have nothing more to say, please excuse me,” I said flatly, turning toward the door.

But his voice stopped me.

“Have you thought about my offer?”

I froze.

The room felt colder.

The same offer that had shattered me.

“What offer?” I asked, even though I already knew.

He scoffed, standing up to pour two glasses of whiskey, one for himself, one for me. The liquid swirled like something sinister in the dim light.

He held one out.

I didn’t want to take it.

Didn’t want anything from him.

But those eyes…

They pinned me in place, sharp and unreadable, daring me to resist.

I bit my lower lip and slowly sat down, fingers wrapping around the cold glass.

“First,” he murmured, raising his drink.

He knocked his back in one swallow.

Then watched me.

Silently ordering me to do the same.

I hesitated.

Then obeyed, the burn searing my throat like punishment.

The glass was barely back on the table when he leaned in, hand curling around my jaw.

And kissed me.

His lips were warm, commanding, and for a second, just a second, I let myself melt into them.

Because I was weak.

Because I wanted him, even when I hated him.

Even when I hated myself more.

The kiss deepened, rougher, hungrier.

His hand slid up, fingers wrapping around my neck. Not tight enough to hurt, but just enough to steal my breath. To remind me who was in control.

Then he released me, only to trail his hand slowly down my throat, sending shivers across my skin.

He stood, pulling me with him until I was caught between his legs, pressed against the desk, chest heaving.

“Wh-what… what are you doing?” I asked, breathless.

My voice was barely a whisper, equal parts fear, need, and disbelief.

His lips were warm and confident, tasting of whiskey and something bittersweet.

I didn’t kiss back right away. I was too stunned. Too confused. What the hell?