The mansion was silent, the kind of silence that pressed down on the walls, broken only by her uneven breathing. She stood in front of the mirror, fumbling with the ribbon of her dress. Her fingers trembled, failing again and again.

It wasn’t the dress. It was her.

Months ago, she had been forced. A man had taken her body without her consent, leaving behind a memory she could never wash off. It wasn’t bruises or scars that haunted her—it was the way her own skin turned against her, how a simple touch could throw her back into that moment. No amount of silk or wealth could cover that kind of wound.

When Lucian’s hand brushed the bare line of her spine, she flinched hard, her entire body locking as if she were about to be dragged there again. Her breath hitched, sharp and broken.

“It’s me,” his voice cut through, deep and steady. No softness, no begging. Just blunt certainty.

Her husband.

The man she had married, the one she had chosen to bind her life to, stood behind her with the patience of stone. His hand didn’t push or linger. He stayed still, giving her the space to decide. Step away if she couldn’t bear it. Stay if she trusted him.

Slowly, painfully, her breathing evened. The panic eased, leaving behind the raw ache of shame she never voiced. She hated it—the way her body betrayed her. But he didn’t tell her to calm down. He didn’t whisper sweet lies. He simply stood there until she could breathe again.

Then, without a word, Lucian took the ribbon from her trembling hands. His movements were precise, controlled, not drawn out, not tender. He tied the dress for her with the same efficiency he handled everything else in his life—clean, exact, unshaken.

When he was done, he rested his hand briefly against the knot he’d tied. Not a caress, not an embrace—just a silent reminder. He was here. He was her husband. He would not hurt her.

It wasn’t romantic. It wasn’t gentle. It was real. And that was enough.