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Chapter 32 - Chapter 32: Eyes That Follow

The boutique was nestled between luxury cafés and designer brands, a quiet but refined fashion house known for its tailored elegance. True to his word, Lucian pulled strings and placed Caliste in a position that matched her skills—not too high to raise suspicions, but not too low to humiliate her.

Caliste stood by the window display, carefully adjusting the drape of a silk scarf on the mannequin's neck. Her heart raced—not from fear, but from the rush of doing something that felt meaningful again. She wore a simple blouse tucked into a pencil skirt, her hair pulled into a low ponytail. There was no trace of the woman who had been locked away in a golden cage. Not today.

Her colleague, Liana, peeked from the corner. "You're new, right? You have the hands of a designer."

Caliste smiled, modest. "I studied fashion once. Long time ago."

"Well, if you keep fixing displays like that, the boss will worship you by Friday," Liana joked.

Caliste chuckled, but deep down, a part of her still felt watched.

And she wasn't wrong.

Across the street, a sleek black SUV sat parked in the shade, windows tinted darker than night. Inside, Lucian leaned back, dressed in his usual suit, sunglasses perched on the bridge of his nose. He hadn't planned to come.

Yet there he was.

Theo, seated beside him, munched casually on a croissant. "You know stalking your mistress at her first job makes you look like a possessive ex, right?"

Lucian didn't respond.

He watched as Caliste assisted a customer with a gentle smile. She looked… different. There was something in her expression he hadn't seen in years. A quiet spark. Purpose. It unsettled him.

"She fits there," Theo added, eyes narrowing. "She's always been more than someone's arm candy, Lucian. You're the only one who pretends not to see it."

Lucian's jaw flexed. "She belongs with me."

"Does she know that?"

Lucian didn't answer.

In the boutique, Caliste glanced at the street—something in her chest tugging unexpectedly—but saw nothing out of the ordinary.

When her shift ended, she stepped out into the late afternoon sun, face glowing with the lightest hint of pride. She didn't realize the black SUV had pulled away moments before.

Lucian sat in silence, one hand tightening around the wheel as if something inside him twisted.

She was smiling.

And for once, he wasn't the reason.

------

Caliste adjusted a rack of summer dresses, her movements quiet but graceful. Her second day at work had started peacefully, with the comforting rhythm of folding fabrics and arranging accessories. It felt almost normal—almost like she had never been Caliste Winslow, heiress turned ghost.

The shop's chime jingled as the front door opened, ushering in a gust of air and the sharp scent of perfume. Caliste didn't bother to look—customers came and went with little fanfare. But the moment the woman spoke, her blood turned cold.

"Well, well. If it isn't the fallen princess herself."

Caliste froze, her hand hovering above a scarf.

She turned slowly.

Standing just a few feet away in a designer coat and stilettos was Sabrina Hall, one of the most notorious socialites of her circle—sharp-tongued, ruthless, and forever lurking in Lucian's shadows. They were never close, but Sabrina always found a way to insert herself into the competition.

Sabrina's lips curled into a mocking smirk. "Didn't recognize you at first. You've become so… common." Her eyes scanned Caliste from head to toe. "No heels. No diamond bracelets. No staff trailing behind."

Caliste took a deep breath and forced herself to stay composed. "Welcome to Liora Boutique. Can I help you find something?"

"Oh please," Sabrina scoffed, stepping closer. "Spare me the act. I came here to see if the rumors were true—and look at you." She picked up a blouse and twirled it carelessly. "The once-envied Caliste Winslow, working retail. You know, there was a time I genuinely thought you'd become untouchable. You had Lucian Velmore wrapped around your finger. Now you're nothing but a mannequin dresser."

Caliste's jaw clenched, but she smiled faintly. "We all grow. Some of us even learn humility."

Sabrina's eyes gleamed with venom. "Is that what you call it now? Growth?" She leaned in, voice lowering to a hiss. "You were the queen, Caliste. Every girl wanted your life. But now? You're a scandal no one even talks about. You vanished, and the world moved on."

Caliste blinked slowly. "And yet… here you are. Still chasing the scraps I left behind."

That made Sabrina bristle. She slapped the blouse back on the rack. "Let's not pretend you chose this. You fell. Hard. And if you think Lucian's going to rescue you again, don't. His tastes have changed."

Caliste felt the sting in her chest, but she stood her ground. "I'm not waiting for anyone to rescue me."

Sabrina tilted her head mockingly. "Then I guess this is your life now. Folding clothes and hiding."

With that, she strutted toward the exit, her heels clicking like thunder across the floor. At the door, she tossed one final glance over her shoulder. "Enjoy your little fairytale, Caliste. I'm sure Lucian would be so proud."

The bell jingled, and she was gone.

Caliste stood still for a long moment, the silence ringing in her ears. Her hands were trembling—but not with shame.

With resolve.

Caliste stepped out of the cab and into the lobby of Lucian's penthouse. Her steps were slow, her heart heavy. Sabrina's words replayed in her head like a cruel melody—cutting, mocking, and true in all the worst ways.

But she couldn't afford to crumble. Not now. Not when her life was hanging by a thread called survival.

The elevator doors opened with a soft chime, and she stepped inside, fixing her hair and adjusting the coat over her work dress. The floors ticked upward, and with every number, she felt the air grow heavier. She knew what tonight meant. The contract didn't leave room for confusion.

She was his now.

When the elevator doors parted, Lucian was already there—standing with a glass of scotch in one hand, his tie loosened and sleeves rolled up. The lights inside the penthouse were dim, warm, and intimate. His eyes, however, were anything but.

Sharp. Cold. Unreadable.

"You're late," he said flatly, setting his drink down on the side table. "Rough day?"

Caliste lowered her gaze and stepped in. "I stayed a little longer. Had to fix a client's order."

He didn't press. Instead, he leaned back against the marble counter, arms crossed over his chest.

"For the record," he murmured, "I don't care about your excuses. You're mine now. You signed the agreement—every night you're here, I will summon you when I want you."

Caliste swallowed hard. "I understand."

Lucian walked past her slowly, deliberately. The scent of his cologne brushed against her skin like an unspoken threat. He paused by the dining table and gestured to the tray already prepared.

"Eat. Take a bath. Then come to my room." His eyes flicked to hers. "Don't make me wait."

Then, without waiting for her response, he disappeared down the hallway and into his private chambers.

Caliste stood still in the silent living room, the quiet buzzing in her ears. She let out a breath she didn't know she was holding.

This was the life she chose. Or rather, the only one left for her.

She walked over to the dining table, where a warm meal waited untouched. She ate quietly, each bite tasting like cardboard. Her mind was too loud. Her heart too tired.

Afterward, she went to the bathroom, slipping into the tub and letting the warm water wash away the bitter memory of Sabrina's laugh, the weight of Lucian's command, and the ache of what her life had become.

When she stepped out, wrapped in a fresh towel and her robe, her reflection in the mirror barely looked like her.

Gone was the socialite heir.

Gone was the Winslow princess.

Now, she was just a woman surviving her nights—his nights.

Caliste stepped into the room, the thick silence wrapping around her like a noose. Lucian didn't turn to look at her. He didn't need to. His presence alone was suffocating—filling the room like smoke after fire.

Her bare feet padded softly across the hardwood floor as she walked toward him, her robe clutched tightly around her trembling body. The air between them pulsed, dense with everything unspoken.

Lucian finally glanced over his shoulder, his gaze sweeping her from head to toe, slowly—deliberately.

"Take it off," he said, voice hard.

Her fingers tightened around the knot of the robe.

He stood.

Not another word.

No tenderness.

No warmth.

Just the quiet dominance of a man who once loved her… and now owned her.

Caliste lowered her eyes as she untied her robe, inch by inch, her breath uneven. Her heart pounded violently against her ribs, not from fear—but from the cruel ache of longing. For something lost. For something she could never reclaim.

The robe slipped to the floor, pooling at her feet.

Lucian's eyes darkened, but his expression remained unreadable—his jaw clenched, his fingers twitching as if restraining something… dangerous.

"You still remember what I like?" he asked coldly, closing the distance between them.

Caliste swallowed hard. Her lips parted to answer—but no words came out.

He didn't wait.

Lucian grabbed her by the waist and pulled her into him, his mouth crashing down on hers with the force of unspoken fury. His kiss was deep, bruising—not passionate, not gentle—just raw possession. She gasped against him, her hands instinctively rising to his chest, unsure whether to push or hold on.

He lifted her effortlessly and tossed her onto the bed.

A familiar scent clung to the sheets. Him. Only him.

Caliste lay still as Lucian climbed over her, his body heavy with the weight of a past they never fully buried. His lips traced her jaw, her neck, leaving fire in their wake.

She knew she shouldn't feel this.

She knew this wasn't love.

But her body remembered him.

Every inch of him.

And despite the ache in her chest, the shame in her gut, she couldn't stop the tears that welled in her eyes—not from fear, but from the cruel irony… that she missed this.

Missed him.

Missed them.

Lucian never said a word as he took her. It wasn't slow or tender. It was fast, deep, and filled with frustration. Each thrust was a question left unanswered. Each kiss was a war waged in silence.

She clung to him, not because she had to—but because she didn't know how to let go.

And when it was over—when the storm inside him had settled and the bed lay in ruins—Lucian turned away from her, chest rising and falling, eyes staring at the dark ceiling above.

Caliste lay beside him, naked, quiet… empty.

She didn't ask him to hold her.

He wouldn't have.

So she turned her back to him too, curled up under the covers, and closed her eyes.

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