The fire isn’t dying. It’s burning hotter, brighter.
Today, I’m back at the Blackwood estate. Tobias had insisted we finalize the wedding guest list with his mother and our wedding planner, though I suspect it’s more about appearances than any genuine interest in my input.
I sit in the parlor, my fingers tracing the delicate pattern on the edge of my teacup. The room is elegant, all polished mahogany and Persian rugs. Helen, Lucian and Tobias’s mother, sits across from me, her posture perfect, and her smile polished to a high sheen. She’s discussing the floral arrangements with the wedding planner as we wait for Tobias to show up. Her eyes flicker to me occasionally, assessing. I smile politely, nodding at the appropriate moments, but my mind is elsewhere.
The sketch.
It’s tucked into my bag, hidden beneath a stack of museum catalogs. I’ve been carrying it with me since that night like a thief with stolen treasure.
“Am I intruding?” The voice is smooth, low, and unmistakable. My head snaps up to find Lucian standing in the doorway, his presence instantly commanding the space. He’s dressed impeccably, as always, in a tailored suit that clings to his broad shoulders, his tie perfectly knotted. Lucian’s dark eyes sweep over the room, lingering on me for a fraction of a second longer than necessary before he steps inside.
Helen’s smile widens, and she gestures toward the empty seat beside her. “Certainly not, darling. We’re just finalizing the details for the wedding. Join us. Tobias is late, so you can give us your thoughts.”
“Of course.” Lucian inclines his head and takes the offered seat. His gaze flickers to me again, burning through the careful composure I’ve been clinging to.
“How was your meeting with Father?” Helen asks.
You see, a small part of my mind whispers,he’s not here for you. You’re losing your goddamned mind for nothing.
“Productive,” Lucian says. “The Windsor case is progressing as expected. Though I’m sure Tobias will have thoughts on the matter when he finally graces us with his presence.”
Helen’s lips tighten, but she says nothing. Instead, she turns back to the wedding planner, who’s holding up swatches of fabric for the tablecloths. “White, ivory, or champagne, Evelyn?”
I glance at the samples. “White,” I say, though I couldn’t care less about the color. Lucian’s presence is like a live wire in the room, sparking with an energy that makes it impossible to think clearly.
The wedding planner launches back into her monologue about peonies versus roses, but my attention is drawn to Lucian. He leans back in his chair, his posture relaxed but controlled, one hand resting on the armrest. His fingers drum against the polished wood. I catch myself staring at his hand, his sleeve sliding back just enough to reveal black ink peeking out from beneath his cuff.
Huh.
I didn’t know he hadtattoos.
“What do you think, Evelyn?” Helen’s voice breaks through the haze of my thoughts, and I blink, startled.
“I-I’m sorry?” I stammer, the heat rising to my cheeks.
“The flowers,” she says slowly as if speaking to a child. “Do you prefer white roses or blush peonies?”
“Oh. I think… peonies.”
“Excellent choice.” Lucian’s voice cuts through the awkward pause that follows my response. His tone is casual, but there’s a glint in his eyes that makes my stomach twist. “They’re more unpredictable than roses. Wilder. More real.”
Helen raises an eyebrow. “Yes, well, we wouldn’t want anything too wild at a Blackwood wedding.”
There’s a sound of footsteps, and Tobias appears in the doorway. “Sorry I’m late,” he says with an easy smile. He stridesinto the room and drops a kiss on my cheek before taking the seat beside me.
Helen smiles at him indulgently while Lucian watches with an expression that could be mistaken for boredom if you didn’t know him better.
But I do know him better, and beneath that cool exterior is a storm raging out of control.
As Tobias chats with Helen and the wedding planner about table settings and seating arrangements, I feel trapped between two worlds—one I am obliged to be part of and one I can’t have.
“Evelyn?” Tobias asks. “What do you think about the seating chart? Should we seat Aunt Margaret next to Uncle Gregory, or would that be too much of a risk?”
“Whatever you think is best.”
Helen claps her hands together. “Well, that settles it then. We’ll seat them separately. No need for any drama at the wedding.” She emphasizes the word as if it’s a poison she’s determined to keep at bay.
Lucian leans forward, his elbows resting on his knees. “It’s a wedding. Drama is inevitable.”
