The intercom buzzes as I’m spreading fig jam on toast.
“Ms. Laurent?” The doorman’s voice is polite. “Your car is here.”
Mycar. Not Lucian’s. Not a taxi.Mine.
The black BMW idles at the curb, the same model I’d once admired in a magazine spread. The driver, a woman in her forties with sharp cheekbones and even sharper eyes, nods as I approach.
“My name is Selene. I’ll be your driver whenever you need. Mr. Blackwood asked me to familiarize you with the vehicle’s security features.” She pops the trunk, revealing a sleek black briefcase. “Your new laptop and phone are inside. Biometrically locked to your fingerprints and retinal scan.”
I run my fingers over the buttery leather. “Of course, they are.”
The driver opens the door for me, and I slide into the back seat, the interior smelling faintly of new leather and something citrusy. As we pull away from the curb, she explains the car’s features—GPS tracking, bulletproof glass, a panic button disguised as the air conditioning controls. It’s all so over-the-top, yet somehow perfectly in line with Lucian’s meticulousness.
When we arrive at the museum, Selene says, “I’ll be waiting here whenever you’re ready to leave.”
The conservation lab is strangely foreign after two days away. The familiar scent of solvents and varnish greets me as I step through the door, but something about the air feels heavier, charged. My colleagues glance up from their workstations, theireyes flicking toward me with a mix of curiosity and unease. The whispers have already started, no doubt fueled by whatever stories Tobias has been spinning in my absence.
I ignore them, focusing instead on the task at hand. My workstation is exactly as I left it, organized and tidy. I slip on my lab coat and get to work. After all, I have just a few hours before I must step into the lion’s den at Blackwood & Associates.
Chapter 25
Lucian
The elevator climbs to the father’s penthouse office suite. I adjust the cuffs of my custom suit, watching my reflection in the brushed steel doors. The man staring back is calm, composed, and every inch the heir apparent. The only tell is the faint pulse at my temple and the way my jaw tenses ever so slightly. Behind me, Tobias shifts restlessly, his nervous energy palpable. He’s already sweating, his tie askew, his cologne too strong. The scent of desperation clings to him.
The doors slide open with a soft chime, revealing the sterile grandeur of our father’s domain. Floor-to-ceiling windows frame the city skyline, the muted hum of Manhattan filtering through the glass. The smell of Cuban cigars and expensive Scotch clings to the air, undercut with something medicinal. Richard Blackwood sits behind his massive desk, the morning light catching the silver in his hair. He doesn’t look up aswe enter. Instead, he flips through a stack of documents with deliberate slowness.
“You’re late,” he grumbles. At seventy-two, he still commands the room like a general surveying a battlefield.
Tobias stammers an apology.
“Traffic,” I say simply, taking my seat across from him. I don’t offer excuses or explanations. Our father respects efficiency, not groveling.
He finally lifts his head, and I see the toll the last year has taken. The stroke left its mark—a slight droop to his right eyelid, a tremor in his left hand that he hides by keeping it tucked in his lap. But the steel in his gaze remains unchanged. “Evelyn Laurent.”
I lean back in my chair, my fingers steepled in front of me. “What about her?”
“Is she worth this?” he asks. “You’ve managed to keep your name out of the tabloids for years, Lucian. Now, you’ll become the subject of every gossip column in the city. And over what? A woman?”
“She’s the only woman who matters.”
Richard’s eyes narrow. “You’re jeopardizing everything we’ve built for a woman who was engaged to your brother. Do you have any idea how this looks?”
“I’m well aware of the consequences. But Evelyn is worth it. She’s worth every scandal, every headline, every ounce of scrutiny.”
Tobias shifts uncomfortably in his seat, his face flushing with anger and humiliation.
“She was never yours to take,” Tobias snaps, finally finding his voice. His hands clench into fists on the table, his knuckles white. “We had a contract. A future. You had no right—”
“You had no right to treat her like a possession,” I cut him off. “You didn’t deserve her.”
Tobias flinches, but before he can retort, Richard slams his hand on the desk.
Silence falls heavy and thick.
Father’s steely gaze shifts between Tobias and me. His hand trembles slightly as he reaches for the glass of water on his desk, the only outward sign of his frailty. “This isn’t just about Evelyn. I don’t care who ends up between your sheets, Lucian. You’re both grown men. But this public spectacle reflects on the firm, on our name, on everything I’ve spent my life building.” His gaze sharpens. “Do you understand that?”
I lean forward, my elbows resting on the desk as I meet his gaze head-on. “I understand perfectly. But let me make one thing clear—Evelyn is not a risk. She’s the only thing in this world I’m certain of.”
