Ariella avoided him the next day.
She skipped breakfast, ignored the knock for her media prep session, and stayed locked in her room until the sun dipped low across the skyline. The kiss haunted her—its heat, its violence, her own reaction to it.
It wasn't just a kiss.
It was a line crossed.
And it scared her how badly she wanted to cross it again.
Lucien, of course, said nothing. He gave no orders. No check-ins. No punishment.
That was worse.
By evening, the penthouse was silent. The staff had gone. The air was heavy.
She crept out barefoot, intending only to grab a glass of water and disappear again—but paused when she heard a voice.
A female voice.
It was coming from his office.
She pressed her back to the wall, inching toward the half-open door.
"…you still owe me dinner, Lucien," the woman said, laughing.
"I've been busy," came his reply — cold, even charming.
"Too busy to see an old flame?" she teased. "Or are you entertaining something… younger?"
Ariella felt heat rise to her cheeks. Not from shame. From fury.
She shouldn't care. She didn't care.
But she did.
She turned, stormed to the elevator — and hit the button for the ground floor.
If he wanted to play games, so could she.
---
The downtown bar was dim, smoky, filled with laughter and shadows. She found a corner booth, ordered a drink, and tried to forget his lips on hers, his voice in her head, his hands on her skin.
It didn't work.
Ten minutes later, a tall man in a leather jacket slid into the seat across from her.
"Alone?" he asked with a cocky grin.
She didn't answer.
He took that as permission.
"You shouldn't be. Pretty girl like you?"
He reached for her hand.
Before he could touch it, a new shadow appeared behind him.
A darker, colder one.
Lucien.
The air shifted.
The man looked up. "Who the hell are y—"
Lucien didn't say a word. He grabbed the man by the collar, yanked him out of the booth, and shoved him toward the door with a silent threat in his eyes that required no translation.
The entire bar watched.
Then Lucien turned to her.
"Get up," he ordered, voice low and dangerous.
She didn't move. "I'm not your property outside that penthouse."
"You're mine everywhere," he growled. "And I warned you once, Ariella—don't disobey me."
"And if I do?" she challenged, standing.
Lucien stepped closer, towering over her.
"Then I'll remind you who you belong to."
Without another word, he pulled off his coat, draped it around her shoulders, and walked her out — hand gripping her waist like a brand.
She didn't fight him.
Not because she was scared.
But because some twisted, terrifying part of her liked that he came for her.
And she hated herself for it.