Lucien's Mansion — A Week Later
The walls were too quiet.
Too soft, too beautiful for a prison. But that's exactly what it was.
Valerie stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows of the room Lucien had given her—if one could call it a gift. The space was larger than her grandmother's entire house. Decorated in ivory and gold, with an antique chandelier that cast warm light across polished wood floors. The bed was draped in soft linens, and every item—from the silk curtains to the velvet lounge chair—looked like it belonged in a magazine.
But she felt like a doll placed in a glass box.
She pressed her forehead against the cool glass, staring out at the vast estate grounds. Immaculate hedges. Stone fountains. Security guards stationed at strategic corners, pretending not to watch her but clearly doing just that.
She sniffled and wiped her eyes.
Her days were spent in silence—save for when she pleaded with the faceless guards outside her door, or with the maids who brought her food.
"I just want to go home," she whispered every time. "Please, my grandmother is alone…"
No one ever answered.
---
Elsewhere in the Mansion
Lucien watched her through the security feed, his jaw set.
She wasn't lying. She couldn't be lying. Or maybe she was. Damn, she was good.
Every movement, every cry, every trembling hand—if it was all an act, then she was the best liar he'd ever met. And he had met his fair share. Even he, a man trained in the art of deception and ruthless strategy, couldn't find the crack.
He leaned back in his chair in his private office, surrounded by glass panels and bookshelves filled with more secrets than knowledge. His jet-black hair fell across his forehead as he rubbed his temple.
"She cries every day," his assistant murmured quietly beside him. "Doesn't eat much. Barely speaks."
Lucien didn't respond. His black eyes were fixed on the screen. Valerie was curled up on the edge of the bed now, hugging her knees again.
His mind drifted.
Two weeks ago, the girl had been fierce. She had snuck into his hotel suite like a ghost, eyes sharp and calculating, tearing through his drawers like she owned the place. He had only managed to catch her because he returned early. She had spit in the face of the man who tried to hold her down. She had called them names that would make a sailor blush.
Now… now she wept like a child, soft-voiced and broken.
"I'm not her," she had whispered to him again yesterday. "I don't know what you think I've done. I just want to go home. Please."
No. Impossible. Faces like that didn't exist twice in the same world.
Lucien stood slowly, brushing imaginary dust off his tailored black shirt.
"If she won't give information through fear," he muttered, "we'll try trust."
"Sir?"
"Make her feel safe," Lucien said, his voice low and cool. "Let her roam. Within limits. I want guards at every corner, hidden. She shouldn't notice. But let her think she's free. The moment she slips—even once—we'll catch her."
---
Later That Day
Valerie's door opened.
A maid stepped in quietly. "Miss, you've been given permission to move around the mansion."
Valerie blinked in confusion. "What?"
"You may go anywhere within the main house. There's a library, a garden, and a solarium. Dinner will be served in the dining hall, should you wish to join."
"I can leave this room?" Her voice cracked.
"Yes. But only inside the house. Guards will still be nearby—for your protection."
Valerie swallowed hard. It wasn't freedom. But it wasn't a cage either.
When she stepped out into the hallway, it felt like stepping into another world. Marble floors stretched endlessly beneath crystal chandeliers. Massive portraits of Lucien's ancestors lined the walls. She wandered, lost and small among it all.
She passed a mirror and almost didn't recognize herself.
Thin. Pale. Eyes sunken from crying.
Who was she becoming?
---
The Blackmoor estate loomed like a monument to generations of power, wealth, and tradition. Its grey stone walls stretched across the countryside like a fortress, surrounded by perfectly trimmed hedges, grand fountains, and guards in tailored suits. Inside, the atmosphere was as cold as the marble tiles that stretched endlessly underfoot.
Lucien sat stiffly at the long mahogany table in the dining room, bathed in soft golden light from the antique chandelier above. His black suit was crisp, his expression unreadable. At the head of the table sat the formidable Alistair Blackmoor—his grandfather—stern, proud, and dressed in a charcoal suit that matched the iron in his voice.
To Alistair's right sat Mrs. Rosie Blackmoor, Lucien's mother. Perfect posture, diamond earrings, a tailored silk gown. Her red-painted lips barely moved unless it was to comment on money, society connections, or appearance. Her sharp, honeyed voice had raised Lucien through guilt, control, and absence.
On the opposite end sat Amelia Langford—Rosie's lifelong friend—and her daughter Clarissa, a porcelain-faced heiress with a practiced smile, flawless skin, and empty eyes. She kept twirling her wine glass and occasionally giggling for no reason.
Lucien had known something was off the moment the invitation arrived—handwritten by his mother's assistant, signed in gold ink, and overly polite.
He'd been right.
"I simply don't understand why you're not dating anyone," Rosie said lightly, slicing her roasted duck. "Clarissa's come all the way from Heaveside just to see you."
It was a known fact that Heaveside was very far from their country.
But Clarissa blushed and tilted her head. "It would be nice to catch up... we haven't spoken in years."
Lucien's eyes narrowed. He already knew what this is all about.
"No need" came his cold reply that sent Clarissa into an embarrassing state.
Rosie smiled tightly. "Darling, this isn't a punishment. We're trying to help you. You're not getting any younger. Do you expect to run the company alone forever without a legacy?"
Lucien dropped his fork.
The clatter was sharp, cutting through the fake warmth of the dining room like a blade.
He stood slowly. "I came because you asked," he said, his voice low, dangerous. "Not because I needed another lesson in manipulation."
"Lucien—" Rosie started.
"What?" His voice sounded so harsh "Seems you just remembered you had a son. And now you want to parade me like an accessory so you can make some twisted alliance with the Langfords?"
Clarissa flinched. Rosie's cheeks flared red. But Alistair simply looked bored.
"You'll marry someone respectable," the old man said, voice like gravel. "If not Clarissa, then someone else. But you will marry. Or the board will hear about your… reckless defiance. And don't think I won't cut you out of the inheritance."
Lucien stared at him—no fear, just quiet contempt.
"I don't care who I marry," he voice sounded emotionless. "But I will not be paraded like a goddamn pawn."
Then he turned on his heel and left the table without another word.