The elevator ride to Lucian's penthouse was long, even though it only took seconds.
Lucian stood stiffly beside Caliste, his gaze focused on the red numbers ticking up. She didn't bother to look at him. Arms folded across her chest, lips pressed tight, she stared straight ahead, jaw tense.
Ding.
The doors opened into the cold, sleek luxury of Lucian's penthouse. Floor-to-ceiling windows framed the city skyline. Everything was in its place—polished, pristine, and perfectly empty.
Like them.
Lucian walked in first, tossing his keys on the marble counter. "I have a flight tomorrow."
Caliste set her bag down slowly. "I didn't ask."
He paused at the kitchen island, his back to her. "Business in Paris. Might take a few days."
She shrugged off her coat. "Take as long as you need. Or don't come back at all."
He stiffened but said nothing. A part of him wanted to argue. Another part wanted to say something stupid like "you'll miss me." But he didn't. He just walked to his bedroom and closed the door.
She didn't follow.
Three Days Later
The sound of her phone buzzing pulled Caliste from her thoughts. She glanced down, expecting a text from her friend.
Instead, what she saw made her stomach drop.
Lucian Velmore Spotted in Paris With Supermodel Bianca Maren – Romance Rumors Swirl
Her breath caught.
She opened the article.
There he was. Dressed in black, sitting across from the stunning model at a rooftop restaurant. They looked… cozy. Comfortable. She was laughing, hand lightly touching his wrist. Another photo showed Lucian walking her to a black car, his head bent close to hers.
Caliste's chest went tight.
She clicked out of the article and opened another. More headlines. More photos.
She hadn't heard from him in days. No text. No call. No explanation.
And here he was, all over the internet, smiling—something he rarely did—with another woman.
Her hands trembled as she placed her phone down on the table.
She stormed to the living room, pacing, heart pounding in her ears. The skyline outside glittered, but all she saw was red.
She had tried.
She had waited for even a sliver of honesty from him. And this was what she got? Paparazzi photos and rumors?
Lucian Velmore didn't do love. That much she knew.
But cheating? While still married? That was another level of cruel.
The front desk buzzed.
"Ma'am, a courier just delivered something for you. Should I send it up?"
She blinked. "Yes… sure."
Moments later, the elevator dinged and a staff member handed her a black box. No label. No message.
Inside: a white envelope and a folded sketch.
It was her.
Drawn in soft pencil strokes, sitting by the penthouse window, staring into the skyline. Alone. Delicate.
Underneath the sketch was a note in Lucian's crisp handwriting:
"I had to leave to understand what I didn't want to lose."
She read it again. Then again.
Anger surged.
"If you really didn't want to lose me," she muttered, "you wouldn't have left in the first place… and you definitely wouldn't have taken her hand."
She crushed the note in her fist and walked to the trash can.
But she didn't throw it away.
She held it for a long moment… before walking into the guest room and slamming the door shut behind her.
Morning came.
Caliste sat curled up on the edge of the couch, wearing one of her oversized sweaters, her phone lying face down beside her untouched coffee.
She hadn't slept.
Her mind replayed the images over and over—Lucian with that woman. Laughing, leaning in close. Looking like he belonged somewhere else.
Her phone rang, breaking her daze.
Dad.
She hesitated for a second, then picked it up. "Hello?"
"Caliste," her father's deep voice came through, sharp but calm, "I've been getting calls all morning."
She sat up. "I know. I saw the photos too. Paris. The model."
There was a pause on the line. "Do you believe it?"
Her lips tightened. "It's not like he denied it."
"I talked to the Velmores," her father said, voice low. "They claim it's fake. That Lucian didn't leak anything, and the woman in the photo is someone hired to spread rumors."
"Hired?" she echoed, frowning. "Why would anyone do that?"
"Corporate sabotage, maybe. Politics. You know how messy the media is with elite families. But listen—if it's true, we'll handle it. But if it's false, you can't blow up this alliance over tabloid drama. Not yet."
Her fingers gripped the phone tighter. "You want me to just... ignore this?"
"I'm asking you to be smart," he replied. "And check again."
The call ended before she could reply.
Still fuming, she reached for her laptop. She typed the headline she'd memorized—Lucian Velmore Supermodel Bianca Maren Paris—and hit enter.
Nothing.
Not even a cached version.
She blinked. Checked her phone. Opened the same news page. Gone.
The article. The pictures. All scrubbed clean. Like it had never existed.
Her heart began to race. No way. She opened social media. The hashtag that had been trending—#VelmoreScandal—was mysteriously silent now.
She opened her messages and scrolled back to the article Carlos had sent.
Deleted.
"What the hell…" she muttered.
Something wasn't adding up.
Later that evening, the elevator chimed. She didn't expect him back.
Lucian walked in wearing his usual tailored coat, scarf loosened around his neck. He looked tired—but that same unreadable calm masked his face.
She stood near the window, arms crossed, staring at him with a mixture of relief and renewed rage.
"You're back," she said flatly.
He nodded. "Early flight."
She watched him carefully. "Paris was nice?"
He met her gaze. "Rainy. Cold."
"You looked warm in those pictures," she bit, eyes sharp.
Lucian stiffened. "So you saw them."
"I did," she said. "Then I didn't. Funny how they disappeared."
Lucian exhaled slowly, stepping further in. "They weren't real. Someone set it up."
"Oh, right," she said with a bitter laugh. "It's always some mysterious enemy."
He looked at her for a long second. "Do you think I'd cheat on you like that?"
She didn't answer.
His voice was quieter now. "Do you really believe I'd hurt you like that?"
"I don't know what to believe, Lucian," she said, swallowing. "You won't even be honest about how you feel. About anything."
He walked over, stopping a few feet from her.
"What if I told you I didn't know how to feel?" he asked. "That I left because I couldn't figure out why it hurt when I saw Jace hold your hand?"
Her eyes widened slightly.
"I saw you," he added. "At the beach. Laughing. Like you belonged with him."
"And what about you?" she snapped. "You belonged with her? With Bianca?"
"I didn't touch her. I didn't even speak to her beyond the first hour," Lucian said firmly. "I left that dinner halfway through. But someone made sure cameras got what they needed."
"Why didn't you just tell me?"
"Because I was angry. Jealous. Confused. And I didn't want to admit any of it," he said, voice cracking with rare vulnerability. "I've never had to explain myself to anyone before."
Silence stretched between them.
She looked away, blinking hard. "You hurt me, Lucian."
"I know."
He stepped closer but didn't touch her.
"I don't know how to be the man you need," he whispered. "But I think I want to try."
Caliste's heart thudded painfully in her chest.
The silence wasn't cold this time. It was fragile. Unspoken. Something beginning.
She didn't know what to say.
So instead, she said nothing—and walked past him, heading to the guest room.
She didn't slam the door.
And Lucian didn't stop her.
But he stood there for a long time after, staring at the sketch he had once drawn of her… and wondering if he was already too late.