A long silence followed.
Lucian leaned back in his chair, eyes darkening. "That's not the word I'd use."
Caliste raised a brow. "No? Because that's exactly what this feels like."
"I'm not married," he said flatly. "A mistress implies someone kept in the shadows, behind a wife and a name. There's no one else. No wife. No ring. No vows. So no… you're not a mistress."
"Then what am I?" she demanded, voice brittle.
Lucian rose from his chair. He walked toward her slowly, gaze unreadable. "You're mine."
Caliste's breath caught. "That's not a title. That's a claim."
He stopped in front of her, not touching her, not reaching. Just towering. "Would you rather I call you an employee? An escort? Or maybe go back to calling you my wife, when you walked away from that title?"
The air between them crackled.
------
The penthouse was breathtaking—floor-to-ceiling windows that bathed the living room in warm sunlight, sleek black marble floors, modern furniture in muted grays and gold accents. It was the kind of place most women would envy.
But to Caliste, it felt like a cage lined with silk.
After signing the agreement, Lucian had said nothing more. He handed her a keycard and pointed to a guest room—far from the master bedroom she once shared with him as his wife.
Now, she was just a kept woman.
The next morning, Caliste awoke alone, the massive bed too quiet. The pillow beside her was untouched. Lucian hadn't slept beside her since that night.
She took a long shower, letting the hot water ease the ache in her chest. Then she slipped into the clothes provided for her—simple but expensive. Designer labels. A soft cashmere sweater and slacks that fit too perfectly. Everything here was curated, beautiful, soulless.
She explored the space quietly.
The kitchen was spotless, not a single personal touch in sight. The fridge was stocked, likely by staff. The balcony overlooked the city skyline—cold, distant, and stunning.
Lucian had left hours earlier for work. She didn't know when he would return. There was no warmth, no goodbye. Just the echo of the front door closing.
She wandered into the library next. Dark wood shelves filled with books. Her fingers skimmed the spines, pausing when she found one of her favorites still tucked on the shelf. She remembered curling beside him on rainy nights, reading aloud while he worked on reports.
Those days felt like someone else's life.
She spent the rest of the day in silence. No maids. No staff. No one but her.
Around noon, she made herself a sandwich, feeling strangely like a guest in her own prison.
Later, she stood by the mirror in the hallway, staring at her reflection.
She didn't look like Caliste Winslow, the heiress. Her features were the same, but there was a quiet hollowness in her eyes now. She had no last name. No identity. Just the label of being his.
The door creaked open at seven. She turned quickly. Lucian walked in, removing his coat, loosening his tie. His face was blank, his expression unreadable.
He glanced at her once. "Eat something. I told the chef to bring dinner."
Then he walked past her without a second glance, disappearing into his study.
No conversation.
Just commands.
Just distance.
She sat down for dinner alone. The food was perfect, untouched. Her appetite didn't return.
That night, she lay in bed and stared at the ceiling. The luxury around her felt suffocating.
She didn't cry.
She wouldn't give this place, or Lucian, her tears.
-------
Caliste stood near the tall windows, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. She had been rehearsing the words in her mind since dawn.
Lucian returned late the previous night, barely offering her a glance before locking himself in his study. This morning, he sat alone in the dining room, sipping coffee, a newspaper open in front of him. He was the picture of icy elegance—suit crisp, expression unreadable.
She approached quietly, her footsteps barely making a sound against the cold marble.
"Lucian," she began, her voice careful but steady.
He didn't look up. "Speak."
She swallowed, resisting the urge to fidget. "I want to find work."
His hand paused mid-turn of the page. Silence hung between them like a fragile thread ready to snap.
Lucian slowly lifted his eyes to her. "Work?"
"Yes," she nodded. "I can't stay here all day doing nothing. I studied fashion design before... before everything. I want to use it."
His gaze didn't waver. "Are you lacking anything here? Food? Clothes? Comfort?"
"No," she admitted. "But I'm not a doll to be placed in a glass box."
A flicker of something passed through his eyes—was it amusement? Disapproval?
He leaned back in his chair, regarding her with the same look he might give a business proposal. "You're under my contract now, Caliste. A kept woman. Mistresses don't usually run off to office jobs or boutique internships."
Her jaw tightened. "Then consider changing the definition of mistress."
His brow rose slightly.
"I'm not asking you for freedom," she continued. "I'm asking to feel human again. I can't breathe in here, Lucian. I need purpose."
He stood slowly, the chair scraping against the marble with a low groan. He walked toward her until the space between them shrank to inches.
"You think a job will give you purpose?" he asked, his voice low, almost mocking.
She met his gaze without flinching. "No. But it will help me remember who I was before everything crumbled."
Lucian studied her—searching, dissecting, testing.
Then, to her surprise, he nodded once. "Fine. You'll work—but under conditions."
"What conditions?"
"I will choose the company," he said coolly. "Someplace I trust. You will not speak to the press. You will not make a scene. And if I say it ends, it ends."
Caliste hesitated, then nodded. "Deal."
Lucian moved past her, grabbing his coat. "I'll arrange it by tomorrow."
She turned to watch him walk to the door. "Thank you."
He paused briefly. "Don't thank me. I'm not doing it for you."
Then he left.
And Caliste was left standing by the window, heart pounding—but feeling, for the first time in a long while, just a little closer to being herself again.