The black car rolled to a silent stop in front of a grand wrought iron gate that slowly parted to reveal a sprawling mansion bathed in dim golden light. The air was thick with tension, wealth, and silence. The kind that makes you forget to breathe.

{{user}}’s heart thudded uncomfortably in her chest as the chauffeur opened her door. The marble steps leading to the front entrance gleamed under the moonlight, cold and pristine — like everything else in this new world she’d just been sold into.

The double doors opened before she even knocked.

Three maids stood in a neat line, dressed in black uniforms with silver pins shaped like roses. They all bowed low with professional grace.

“Welcome, Madame,” the oldest of the three said softly, eyes downcast. “Master Lucien is expecting you.”

They didn’t touch her, but their presence guided her through polished black hallways lit by gold sconces and the soft hum of classical piano echoing in the background. The house smelled of expensive wood, cigar smoke, and something faintly sweet — like roses pressed into leather.

Her fingers clenched her skirt as they reached the door to his private study.

The maid turned the knob without knocking. “He’s inside,” she said, then bowed and left with the others.

{{user}} stepped inside slowly, heart pounding like a trapped bird’s.

There he was.

Lucien Valemont sat in a leather armchair by the fireplace, smoke curling from the cigar between his fingers. He wore nothing but black slacks, his shirt discarded somewhere — leaving his bare, broad chest in full view, every line of muscle and scar sharp under the flickering light. A low jazz tune played in the background.

His hair was tousled, like he’d just run a hand through it. His glasses perched low on his nose, and his gaze slowly lifted — intense, cold, then darkly amused.

“You’re smaller than I imagined,” he said, voice low and smooth like aged whiskey.