Camila's POV
The summons came just after dawn—sharp knock, no words. Just a look from the silent maid who pointed down the hall.
Camila followed the path without question, heart quiet but alert. She knew this was another test. Everything in this house was.
She was ushered into a sitting room she hadn't seen before. Sleek, dark, and cold as always. Lucien sat in an armchair, one leg crossed, a box wrapped in black silk resting on the low table before him.
"Morning," he said, like it was nothing at all.
Camila didn't respond.
He motioned to the box. "Deliver this."
Her eyes flicked to it. "That's it?"
"That's it," he said smoothly. "Take it down the east corridor. Room thirty-seven. Someone will be waiting to sign."
She waited for the catch.
Lucien gave it to her, slowly rising to his feet, stepping close enough that she could feel the cold command radiating off him.
"You don't speak. You don't look around. You deliver the package, get the signature, and return."
Camila arched a brow. "That's almost too easy."
He leaned in slightly, voice low. "It's not about going, Camila. It's about how you deliver the package."
She didn't flinch. Just nodded once, picking up the box.
---
The halls were quiet as she walked, her steps muffled on the marble. Room numbers blurred past. She kept her gaze straight ahead—mostly.
Until she reached Room 37.
A guard stood outside, tall, lean, unfamiliar.
He looked up as she approached. Just a flick of his eyes. Nothing more.
But Camila met them—only for a heartbeat. Just long enough to see he wasn't like the others. There was something... human there.
She passed him the box in silence.
He took it without question, opened the door just enough to hand it off, then returned with a clipboard.
Signature acquired.
Camila turned and walked back without another glance.
---
Lucien was already waiting when she returned. Standing now, one hand in his pocket, eyes sharp.
"Well?"
"Delivered," she said. "Signed."
He took a step closer, the air around him tightening.
"But you looked."
She lifted her chin. "I delivered the package, didn't I?"
His mouth curved into something like amusement. "But you looked."
Camila let the corner of her lips twitch, just barely. "The package was the task. That's what matters."
Lucien studied her, gaze unreadable. Then—
"Smart move," he murmured, almost to himself.
She wasn't breaking.
She was bending.
Learning to twist within the lines instead of crossing them.
"Good," he said finally, his voice silk over steel. "You're learning."
A beat passed.
"Good."
---
---
Chapter 7 – One Request
Camila's POV
The door clicked shut behind her with a finality that echoed. Lucien had dismissed her without a word more, eyes colder than usual—though she was beginning to realize that cold was simply his natural temperature.
She didn't leave right away.
Instead, Camila walked slowly across the marble floor, fingers idly brushing the edge of a nearby curtain until she reached the tall window at the far end of the room. She stared out, the moonlight painting her reflection in glass, sharp and uncertain.
The metal of the collar at her throat caught the light. She touched it absently, her fingertips brushing along its curve—not with surrender, but calculation.
"You're standing in Master Lucien's favorite spot."
Camila didn't flinch. She turned slowly, unsurprised to see Gwen leaning casually against the doorframe, arms crossed, lips curled in smug amusement.
"I didn't know he had a favorite spot," Camila said dryly. "Maybe you should get him a plaque."
Gwen's eyes narrowed. "Of course you wouldn't know. You're just another pawn in the game."
Camila smiled, sweet and sharp. "Aren't we all?"
Gwen stepped closer, voice a venomous whisper. "You won't last the week."
Camila's smirk deepened as she walked past her. "Watch me."
---
Later that night, while walking back toward her room, Camila passed the formal lounge and paused. A coat had been carelessly tossed over the back of a velvet chair—Lucien's. She would recognize the cut, the cold scent lingering in the air.
It shouldn't have mattered.
But it did.
Because there was a smear of red lipstick on the lapel.
She hadn't worn red.
Gwen had.
The pieces shifted.
So that was the reason for the passive aggression. The whispered threats. The game behind the game.
Camila stood still for a moment longer, then turned away, her eyes unreadable.
She wasn't jealous of Gwen.
She was jealous of the strategy.
The way Gwen had already learned how to play him. To move inside the lines. To offer what he liked before he had to ask for it.
Camila clenched her jaw. She would not be discarded. She would not be outplayed.
If she wanted to survive, she'd have to step up.
Way up.
She had a game of her own to master—and it had only just begun.
---
---
Chapter 8 – Masked Dinner
Camila's POV
The dress was black.
Tight.
Leather.
It clung to her like a second skin, whispering danger with every step she took down the manor's endless corridor. Her heels tapped softly against the marble floor, echoing in the quiet like a countdown.
Lucien hadn't summoned her today. No tests. No twisted puzzles.
Just a dress.
A mask.
And a time: dinner.
She wore the mask now—black lace that only half-hid her face, like a lie that didn't care to be convincing. Camila smirked behind it.
Whatever tonight was, it wasn't about blending in.
The dining hall was transformed. Candlelight flickered across crystal, shadows danced up gilded walls, and low music curled around the guests like smoke. Everyone wore masks—ornate, expensive, ridiculous.
Except him.
Lucien stood at the far end of the room, tall and untouchable in a dark suit cut like sin itself. No mask. He didn't need one. His face was the warning.
And beside him—Nicola.
Of course.
The woman was stunning, draped in a crimson gown that dripped like blood, her mask sharp and glittering. She looked Camila up and down with a slow, deliberate sneer.
"I see the pet learned to dress herself," Nicola said, her voice dripping with amusement.
Camila tilted her head. "And I see you've still got a sharp tongue. Careful you don't cut yourself on it."
Lucien didn't interfere. He didn't even flinch. He simply watched, as if this too was part of the show.
They moved to the table shortly after, the long stretch of polished wood filled with strangers speaking in codes Camila couldn't yet understand.
Money. Power. Blood.
Deals whispered behind wine glasses. Laughter with no warmth. Camila didn't know what they were talking about, not really—but she knew one thing.
It was business. And it was dangerous.
When Lucien stood, the music shifted. He walked around the table with the kind of presence that made the world hold its breath, stopping just beside her chair.
"Dance with me," he said simply.
It wasn't a question.
Camila didn't answer. She slid her hand into his and rose, ignoring the way Nicola's eyes burned holes through her back. Let her look. Let her hate.
The floor was marble. The room was full. But Lucien's hand on her waist made the rest of it disappear. Their movements were slow, practiced. Too close.
She glared up at him. "What is this?"
His lips curled. "A moment."
They turned, and her body hit his chest—hard and sudden.
He didn't let her go.
Instead, Lucien leaned down, his breath warm against her ear.
"I have a question to ask," he murmured.
Her breath caught. Her heart didn't trust him.
But her body—her body was listening.
Then came the question. Low. Dangerous. Heavy with unspoken weight.
"What are you willing to do for those you love?"
The music played on.
And she had no answer.