Chapter 33

Johan

Lucian left not long after that, offering Damas a polite nod, slipping his hands back into his coat pockets like he had not just disrupted my entire plan.

He did not look at Halo.

Not once.

Halo stood there for a second longer than necessary, eyes flicking toward the exit, like he expected something. A word. A glance. Anything.

Nothing came.

I should not have felt satisfied, but I did.

“Your brother always leaves like that?” Halo asked casually, pretending to study a painting again.

“Like what?” I replied.

“Like… that.” He shrugged. “Cold.”

“He is busy.”

Halo hummed, clearly unconvinced, but he let it drop.

We stayed longer than I planned. He drifted from wall to wall, reading every plaque, asking me questions I barely cared about.

“Does Lucian come to these often?”

“Sometimes.”

“Does he talk to the artists?”

“If he feels like it.”

“What kind of art does he like the most?”

I exhaled slowly. “Halo, are you here with me or conducting research?”

He blinked at me. “I am just asking.”

“About him.”

He looked away, lips pressing into a thin line. “You said you would help.”

That shut me up.

At six sharp my phone vibrated in my pocket.

I did not need to check the name.

Waiting. Prestine.

Short. Commanding. Typical.

I turned to Halo, who was crouched slightly to look at the texture of a canvas up close. “We are leaving.”

He straightened immediately. “Why?”

“We have dinner.”

“With who?”

I raised a brow. “Take a wild guess.”

It took exactly one second for it to click.

His whole face changed. It was almost violent, the way excitement rushed through him. His eyes widened, lips parting.

“You did not.”

“I did not what?”

“You convinced him?”

I shrugged like it was nothing.

He stepped forward and hugged me. Quick. Warm. Completely unplanned. His arms wrapped around my waist for barely two seconds before he pulled away like he had touched something illegal.

“Sorry,” he mumbled, cheeks flushing. “I just… thank you.”

I forced a smirk. “Do not get emotional.”

But I let him believe I arranged it.

The drive to the restaurant was torture.

He would not stop talking.

“What do you think he will wear?”

“Do you think he will sit next to me?”

“Should I apologize for earlier?”

“Do you think he noticed I cut my hair?”

My grip tightened around the steering wheel. The leather creaked under my fingers. Streetlights slid over his face as we drove, catching the curve of his smile, the restless tapping of his knee.

“You are acting like he proposed,” I muttered.

Halo laughed softly. “You do not understand.”

“Oh, I understand perfectly.”

He turned toward me, serious now. “He is not as bad as you think.”

I glanced at him. “No?”

“He just… keeps people at a distance.”

“And you enjoy being pushed away?”

He hesitated, staring at the passing city lights. “It is not like that.”

One would think Lucian had treated him kindly.

One would think he had ever offered warmth.

All I had seen was dismissal. Cold looks. Silence that cut sharper than words.

Yet Halo talked about him like he was some misunderstood prince.

“You know he ignores you on purpose,” I said quietly.

Halo’s jaw tightened. “He does not.”

“He does.”

Silence filled the car.

His voice, when it came again, was smaller. “Maybe he just does not know how to… respond.”

I let out a dry laugh. “Trust me. My brother knows exactly what he is doing.”

Halo folded his arms and looked out the window, stubborn.

And that was the part that burned.

He was defending him.

Defending the man who would not even greet him properly.

By the time we pulled up in front of Prestine, the building glowing under warm golden lights, Halo was practically vibrating in his seat. He checked his reflection in the mirror, smoothing down his curls, pressing his lips together nervously.

“Do I look okay?” he asked.

I looked at him. Really looked at him.

Soft sweater. Slim pants. Hair slightly messy from running his hands through it. Eyes bright with hope.

“You look fine,” I said.

He smiled like I had given him a gift.

And I hated that the only thing on his mind as we stepped out of the car was not me.

We stepped into Aurelio.

Crystal chandeliers hung like frozen rain from the ceiling, casting soft gold light over polished marble floors. The air smelled faintly of truffle oil and expensive perfume. A pianist played near the bar, something slow and elegant that blended into the quiet conversations around us.

Halo stopped for half a second. Just half.

His eyes lifted, taking in the tall glass walls, the floral arrangements that probably cost more than his rent, the way the staff moved like they were trained for royalty. He quickly straightened his shoulders, trying to look unimpressed.

I saw it, though.

“This is…” he started, then cleared his throat. “Nice.”

“Nice?” I smirked. “That is the word you are going with?”

He nudged me lightly. “Shut up.”

At least he was not chanting Lucian’s name like a prayer anymore.

A hostess approached us with a professional smile. “Mr. Wolfe  is waiting at the rooftop lounge.”

Of course he was.

We followed her through the restaurant and up a private elevator. When the doors opened, the city stretched around us in glittering lights. The rooftop lounge was quieter, more intimate. Soft lanterns flickered against the evening breeze.

Lucian was already seated at a corner table. Perfect posture. Dark suit. A glass of water was untouched in front of him.

He looked up.

His eyes landed on me first.

Then shifted to Halo.

And his expression changed. Just slightly. A faint crease between his brows, like he had ordered a meal and received the wrong dish.

Halo noticed. Of course he did.

Still, he walked forward and sat down. “Good evening.”

Lucian gave him a short nod. “Halo.”