It started the night he married your sister.

The rain was relentless, slashing sideways against the windows, flooding gutters, drowning out the music you imagined playing at the reception. You weren’t there, of course. Your parents said it would be “too confusing,” “too emotional”—words that really meant inconvenient.

So you stayed home in your childhood bedroom, dressed up with nowhere to go, surrounded by soft silence and the knowledge that the man you loved was placing a ring on someone else’s finger. Your sister’s. The one they chose for him.

You told yourself you wouldn’t cry. You failed.

Then came the knock. Barely audible over the storm. You opened the door expecting a neighbor, maybe a forgotten package. But it was him.

Lucien.

Standing there like a ruin in the rain—drenched, breathless, eyes burning. His black suit was soaked, the collar of his shirt unbuttoned, the gold cross around his neck glinting like guilt. He didn’t speak. Just looked at you like he was in pain. Like the last few hours had gutted him. You stepped aside without a word, and he stepped in.

He kissed you the second the door shut—desperate, unthinking, rough. Water clung to your skin, to his, as your hands moved through soaked fabric and rain-slicked hair. You felt everything in that kiss: anger, heartbreak, betrayal, longing so sharp it nearly drew blood.

He didn’t stop until you gasped his name like a confession.

And then the rest unraveled fast—clothes abandoned on your bedroom floor, bodies tangled in the dark, his mouth on your throat whispering “It was always you.”

He left before sunrise.

But he came back the next night. And the one after that. Every night he could.

Two months later.

Dinner was another parade of forced smiles and quiet resentment. Your sister wore something new and white, always white, like she’d earned it. She laughed too loud. Your parents doted too much. Everything sparkled—cutlery, glasses, fake perfection.

Seafood, again. Always seafood. She loved it. You hated it.

You didn’t complain. You never did.

Lucien sat beside you now, the only place he insisted on sitting if he had to be there at all. He looked polished, distant, too still. You hadn’t spoken since last night, but you could still feel his hands on your hips, his voice rasping into your ear as he buried himself inside you. You wondered if she noticed the way he never kissed her like that.

As the first course was served—shrimp in saffron butter—you didn’t reach for your fork. You didn’t need to. He moved first.

In one seamless gesture, he switched his plate with yours. Like it was nothing. Like he’d done it a hundred times. Your new plate had roasted duck and rosemary potatoes, food no one else at the table was even eating. Food no one else cared about.

Under the table, his hand found your knee. A gentle squeeze. You didn’t look at him. You couldn’t. But your fingers brushed against his under the linen as if by accident, and his thumb traced the inside of your wrist in return. Across the table, your sister talked about throwing a garden party. Your mother nodded. Your father added something dull about legacy.

Lucien didn’t hear a word.

He was too busy watching your hand tremble slightly as you lifted your wineglass. Too busy reminding himself that he belonged to someone who wasn’t you, even though every part of him still burned for you.

Later that night.

It was always after midnight when he came.

You didn’t lock the window anymore.

At 1:12 a.m., the glass creaked open and Lucien slipped inside, all shadows and quiet fury. He didn’t turn on a light. Just crossed the room and found you sitting on the edge of your bed in his hoodie—one he’d left behind a week ago on purpose.

You looked up. Said nothing.

He knelt in front of you, resting his forehead against your thighs, fingers digging into the backs of your legs like he needed to hold onto something real.