The parchment trembled in Lillian's hand.
She read it once.
Then again.
Her husband's name sat heavy at the top of the page—followed by seals she did not recognize, signatures written with the confidence of men who already believed they had won.
"They can't," she whispered.
The land had been his family's for generations. Acres of soil soaked with memory, with blood, with promises whispered long before either of them were born. It wasn't just property. It was his pride. His shield.
And now—
"Disputed ownership," the letter read.
"Immediate seizure pending review."
Lillian crushed the parchment in her fist.
A knock came at the door
"Not now," she said sharply.
The door opened anyway. Her husband stood there, coat still on, dust on his boots, eyes darker than she had ever seen them.
"They've started already," he said.
Her chest tightened. "So it's true."
He nodded once. That was all.
"Men from the east," he continued. "Backed by names with reach. They say the crown owes them favors. They say the land was never ours."
Lillian laughed—short, hollow. "And you let them say it?"
His jaw clenched. "I don't have a choice. Not this time."
Silence fell between them, thick and suffocating.
She stepped closer, lowering her voice. "If they take the land, they take everything. Our standing. Our safety." Her eyes searched his face. "Do you understand what that means for us?"
"For you," he corrected quietly.
That hurt more than she expected.
Lillian turned away, blinking fast. "I married into a fortress," she said. "Not a crumbling wall."
He said nothing.
Outside, the sound of hooves echoed—men moving, measuring, claiming what was not yet theirs.
Lillian pressed her palm to the window, watching strangers walk the edge of her life.
...
Anne woke with a sharp breath, her heart racing as though it had outrun her body.
The dream clung to her—dark, tangled, full of things she could not name but could still feel. Loss. Fire. Being left behind. She pressed a hand to her chest, grounding herself, but the silence of her room only made it worse.
Too quiet.
Too empty.
Before she could think herself out of it, she was already slipping from the bed.
The hallway was cold, stone biting through the thin soles of her feet. Each step felt stolen, reckless. When she reached Lucian's door, she hesitated.
We're… friends now. Aren't we?
At least—something like it.
This was just comfort. Just safety. That was all.
She pushed the door open.
His room was darker than hers, colder somehow, shadows pooling in the corners. The curtains barely stirred. Lucian lay asleep, stretched across the bed, his breathing slow and deep—unguarded in a way she had never seen him before.
For a moment, she simply stood there, watching.
Then quietly, carefully, she crossed the room.
Anne lifted the quilt and slipped beneath it, keeping her distance at first, pulling the cover higher as if it could shield her from her own thoughts. The mattress dipped as she settled, and almost immediately, Lucian shifted.
His arm moved—heavy, warm—settling around her waist as though it had always known where she would be.
She stiffened, instinct flaring. Gently, she wriggled free, turning slightly away.
But the cold rushed back in.
After a heartbeat, she turned again, this time facing him. She placed her hands flat against his chest, feeling the steady rhythm beneath her palms. Before she could second-guess herself, he drew her closer, his body responding without waking.
She fit there. Too easily.
This feels… too good, she thought, a quiet certainty blooming in her chest.
I can never truly hate this man. And he can never hate me—no matter how hard he tries to deny it.
As if answering her unspoken thought, Lucian shifted again. His chin dipped, and his lips brushed gently against her hair—an unconscious, instinctive gesture.
Anne's breath hitched.
She didn't move.
Wrapped in his warmth, the nightmare finally loosened its grip, dissolving into something softer. Safer. And as sleep found her again, one thought lingered—quiet, undeniable:
Whatever we are now… it can never be friends.
... Lucian's pov
She never knew.
That was the strange part.
Lucian lay awake in the dark, Anne's quiet breathing warm against his chest, and memory crept in the way it always did—uninvited, precise.
He had been a boy then. Too quiet. Too observant. The kind of child adults forgot was listening.
She had been younger. Lighter somehow. Laughing as though the world had never taught her caution.
He remembered her legs first.
Not in the way a man would—God, no—but the way a child notices movement before meaning. She had been running through the gardens, skirts gathered in her fists, bare legs flashing in the sun as she chased something invisible.
Freedom, perhaps.
He had stood at the edge of the hedge, hidden, muddy boots sinking into the earth, watching her laugh as if it were a language he didn't speak yet but desperately wanted to learn.
She tripped.
Not badly—just enough to stumble, to scrape her knee. She sat there in the grass, blinking at the blood like it had personally offended her.
Lucian had stepped forward instinctively.
Then stopped.
Someone called her name. A maid rushed over. Gentle hands. Familiar comfort.
Anne hadn't looked his way even once.
And that was how it stayed.
Years passed. Titles changed. Blood was spilled. Childhood was burned out of him piece by piece.
But sometimes—on nights like this—he still remembered the girl who ran without fear, who cried openly, who got back up without waiting to be told she could.
She never remembered him.
She couldn't.
He had only watched from a distance, already learning the lesson that would define his life:
Some things you protect by staying unseen.
Lucian's arm tightened unconsciously around Anne now, not possessive—protective. As if the boy he once was still stood at the hedge, keeping watch.
"You're safe," he murmured without waking, lips brushing her hair again.
She shifted closer in her sleep.
And for the first time since he could remember, Lucian allowed himself to think something dangerous, something soft:
...
Morning slipped in quietly, pale light stretching across the bed in thin ribbons.
Anne woke alone.
The space beside her was cold, the sheets undisturbed except for the faint impression where he had been. She lay there for a moment longer than necessary, staring at the ceiling, a dull ache settling in her chest.
A strange sadness settled in her chest, sudden and uninvited. She frowned at it, confused.
Why do I feel like this?
She was already dressed—she had slept in the gown she'd worn after leaving her room, the fabric now slightly creased, familiar against her skin. She pushed herself upright, smoothing it absently as she slid from the bed.
Then she smelled it.
Food.
Warm. Real. Comforting.
Butter, perhaps. Bread. Something sweet.
Her first thought was irritation.
So the house is full again, she assumed. Servants moving about, voices low, footsteps everywhere. The kind of noise that pressed in on you even when you didn't see it. The kind she had grown up with and quietly learned to resent.
It was why she had once dreamed of marrying someone simple. A life without constant motion. Without eyes always watching.
Her mood soured instantly.
But as she stepped into the corridor, she paused.
The house was… quiet.
No footsteps. No murmurs. No rustling skirts.
Only the smell lingered.
Anne exhaled, feeling a little foolish, a little embarrassed by how quickly her temper had flared. She rubbed her arms lightly, grounding herself.
I'm just tired, she decided.
Cranky. That's all.
Still, a small, childish irritation remained.
He couldn't even tell me he was going out, she thought, turning toward her room.
Maybe I expected too much. Maybe I imagined the closeness. Maybe he doesn't care the way I thought he did.
The idea left a dull ache behind.
She was halfway up the stairs when she heard her name.
"Anne."
She froze.
The voice came from below—deep, unmistakable—but softened by something she couldn't place. Not sharp. Not commanding.
Curious despite herself, she turned.
Lucian stood alone in the wide kitchen.
No servants. No audience.
Just him.
His sleeves were rolled up, his dark shirt stained with flour and something darker—perhaps berries, perhaps sauce.
The counter behind him looked like a battlefield—bowls, herbs, spilled liquid, a knife resting far too close to the edge.
For a heartbeat, she simply stared.
Then she laughed—soft at first, then openly, unable to stop herself.
"Lucian," she said, walking closer, amusement lighting her eyes. "What in the world are you doing?"
He glanced down at the state of himself, then back at her, one corner of his mouth lifting.
The kitchen filled with a quiet, restless energy—like the air before rain.
Anne stepped closer, careful not to brush against him, though the space between them was already too small. He smelled like warmth and effort—soap beneath flour, something faintly citrus. She folded her arms, smiling despite herself.
"You look… domestic," she said lightly.
Lucian snorted. "Don't spread that rumor."
She laughed, the sound soft, almost surprised out of her. It loosened something between them. He reached for a cloth, missed it, knocked over a bowl instead. They both froze—then laughed again, harder this time.
"Careful," Anne teased. "You're waging war on your own kitchen."
He leaned a hip against the counter, watching her. "You started it."
"How?"
"By existing this early in the morning."
She rolled her eyes, but her smile lingered. As she helped him steady the bowl, her fingers brushed his. Neither of them pulled away immediately.
We are friends right? Anne said add Lucian brought her closer.
Yes Anne we are, but... He started but stopped himself. Anne let Lucian carry her to the floor stained counter.
As he placed himself between her legs, Anne can never deny she was fully wet already, she wants him but it felt so wrong...
Just then she arched a bit more as Lucian held her waist dressing tiny circles through her dress, the friction made everything better.
She felt Lucian erection through her dress, but he was still restrained, he wanted get but held himself back he hasn't even once kissed her.
She felt his hands now going to her neck, her weak point.
She wanted to just feel him before she would pull away, but she wasn't the kind of lady to loose control.
Anne cleared her throat. "So," she said, glancing around, "do you… not pay the maids and guards when they're not here?"
Lucian blinked, pulling himself off her and running a hand through his hair, then he seemed to understand. "Ah. That."
She shrugged. "I thought the house was full earlier. The smell of food. I assumed everyone was back."
"No," he said gently. "This is my personal house. They don't idle here."
She frowned slightly. "Then where do they go?"
He wiped his hands on the cloth, suddenly more serious but not cold. "Other places. Villas. Hospitals. Properties I oversee. Some work relief shifts. Some rotate."
Anne looked at him, surprised. Wow
Something softened in her expression. "That's… thoughtful."
Lucian's mouth curved faintly. "Don't tell anyone."
She smiled, stepping closer again, her shoulder almost brushing his arm. "You're full of contradictions."
"So are you."
Their eyes held. The kitchen felt warmer now, quieter somehow, like the world had narrowed to this small, flour-dusted space.
Then his phone rang.
PART TWO
I watched Kate from across the room, and the ache in my chest had nothing to do with fear anymore.
It was regret.
People liked to pretend children became who they were on their own, as if parents were only witnesses. That lie had never comforted me. Kate's sharp edges, her recklessness, her hunger for escape—I knew where some of it came from.
From me.
I had been tired when she was young. Tired and distracted and grieving things I never spoke aloud. I had loved her, yes—but love, I was learning far too late, was not always enough when it was given through absence, through impatience, through silence.
When we caught her—God—that night replayed itself endlessly in my mind. The smell. Her eyes, wild and furious, but underneath it all… hurt. Betrayal. As if she had been waiting for me to fail her and finally had proof.
I had shouted.
I should have listened.
Now I saw her leaning against the railing, pretending she didn't care, pretending nothing touched her. And I felt the weight of every moment I had chosen order over understanding, discipline over presence.
I had wanted her to be strong.
Instead, she had learned how to numb herself.
"If I had done better," I thought bitterly, "she wouldn't be looking for escape in places that could kill her."
Kate laughed at something someone said, careless and sharp, and it cut deeper than if she had cried. Crying meant there was still space for comfort. Laughter like that meant armor.
I didn't hate her for what she'd done.
I hated myself for not seeing it sooner.
And now, as the house shifted with new tensions, new dangers, I feared the truth I never said aloud:
That if Kate fell again, it would not only be her fault.
It would be mine.