Riven had imagined this moment too many times.
He had imagined Lucien angry, cruel, dismissive.
He had imagined Lucien pulling him close just to push him away.
He had imagined violence, rejection, humiliation.
What he had not imagined was Lucien sitting across from him like this — still, composed, eyes steady in a way that made the room feel smaller.
Lucien didn't pace.
He didn't raise his voice.
He didn't look away.
That was always the worst part.
They were in Lucien's private study, not the office that carried men in suits and bloodless decisions, but the quieter room behind it — dark shelves, heavy wood, a single lamp casting light across the desk like a line neither of them had crossed.
Riven stood at first. Then sat. Then stood again.
Lucien waited.
"You're hurting me," Riven said finally, the words slipping out rougher than he intended. "And you know you are."
Lucien folded his hands together. "Sit down."
Riven did.
Lucien's voice was calm — not unkind, but precise. "You came here to accuse me, or to understand me?"
Riven laughed, short and sharp. "You make it sound like I have a choice."
"You always do."
"No," Riven said, leaning forward. "I don't. That's the point. You stand there and watch while everything around me collapses, and you say nothing. You let it happen."
Lucien's jaw tightened, just slightly.
"You think I don't see what you're doing?" Riven continued. "You don't touch me. You don't claim me. You don't stop him. And every time I think maybe — maybe — you'll finally say something, you pull further back."
Lucien studied him for a long moment before speaking.
"Riven," he said quietly, "you're mistaking restraint for indifference."
Riven's breath stuttered. "That's not an answer."
"It's the only honest one I have."
Lucien rose then, slowly, moving around the desk but stopping well short of Riven. He kept distance like it was deliberate — like he knew exactly how close was too close.
"When your mother began working for my household," Lucien said, "you were young. You saw me at a distance — authority, stability, something unmoving in a world that was not kind to you."
Riven stiffened.
"You grew up watching me," Lucien continued. "Not as a man. As a symbol."
Riven shook his head. "That's not—"
"Let me finish."
The room felt colder.
"I'm not saying your feelings are false," Lucien said. "I'm saying they were formed in proximity. In admiration. In safety. That doesn't make them shallow. It makes them untested."
Riven stood abruptly. "You don't get to explain my love like it's a case file."
Lucien didn't flinch. "I get to be careful with it."
Riven's hands curled into fists. "I know what being in love is."
Lucien met his gaze. "Do you?"
"Yes," Riven said fiercely. "I know what it feels like to want someone even when it hurts. To choose them even when they don't choose you back. To keep going when it would be easier to stop."
Silence stretched between them.
Lucien exhaled slowly.
"What you feel," he said, "is powerful. But power does not equal permanence."
Riven's voice broke. "So you're saying it'll pass."
"I'm saying," Lucien replied carefully, "that you are eighteen. Your life has barely begun. And I will not anchor your future to a feeling that hasn't survived time."
Riven swallowed. "So what — you're just waiting for me to stop loving you?"
Lucien's eyes darkened. "No."
The word landed heavier than anything else he'd said.
"I'm waiting," Lucien continued, "to see if it remains when you no longer need me."
Riven stared at him. "That's not fair."
Lucien's mouth curved into something bitter. "Fair has never been part of this."
Lucien turned slightly, gaze shifting to the window as if gathering himself. When he spoke again, his voice was quieter.
"If in two years," he said, "you still feel exactly as you do now — not desperate, not reactive, not clinging to the version of me you created when you were younger — then you come to me."
Riven's heart hammered. "And then?"
"Then," Lucien said, turning back, "we talk. Honestly. As equals."
Riven laughed weakly. "You're already deciding I won't."
"I'm deciding nothing," Lucien said. "I'm refusing to decide for you."
The silence returned — different now. Heavier. Sharper.
Riven dragged a hand through his hair. "Two years," he echoed. "You expect me to just... wait?"
Lucien hesitated.
"Not wait," he said. "Live."
Riven looked at him, searching. "And in the meantime?"
Lucien held his gaze. "You focus on your studies. You build something that doesn't orbit me."
Then, after a pause that felt deliberate, he added, "When you're ready — when you've earned it — you come work with me."
Riven froze. "Work with you?"
Lucien nodded. "You're intelligent. Observant. Ruthless when you need to be. Those are not wasted traits."
Riven's chest tightened. "You'd let me stay close."
"I would give you purpose," Lucien corrected. "Proximity would be a consequence of that."
Riven stepped closer despite himself. "Is this your way of keeping me?"
Lucien didn't answer immediately.
Then: "It's my way of making sure you don't disappear."
Riven stared at him, breath uneven.
"Wouldn't you want to work with me?" Lucien asked quietly.
The question was a trap.
Riven knew that.
And still—
"Yes," he said. "I would."
Lucien nodded once. "Then that's what we'll do."
Riven's voice dropped. "And what about... this?" He gestured between them. "You're just going to pretend it doesn't exist?"
Lucien's eyes flickered — just once.
"I'm going to contain it," he said. "Until it either proves itself... or fades."
Riven felt something settle in his chest — not peace, not relief.
Hope.
Dangerous, fragile hope.
"I'll prove it," Riven said quietly.
Lucien looked at him then — really looked — and for a moment, something unreadable passed through his expression.
"I know," he said.
And that, Riven realized too late, was not reassurance.
It was a warning.