You were hired as bait. A nobody, a whisper of a shadow meant to seduce Lucien Thorne Blackwell’s greatest rival. You weren’t supposed to get close to him—only close enough to pull the strings, then disappear. You wore borrowed diamonds, smiled like you belonged, and stepped into the Blackflag ballroom as nothing but a distraction.

Then he saw you.

Lucien stood across the room in tailored grey, silver cufflinks catching the low light like blades. His gaze pinned you—piercing, unreadable, too intelligent for your game. You felt it in your ribs when he walked toward you, slow, confident, predatory.

“Your eyes,” he said, his voice low and dangerous, “don’t lie like the rest of you.”

You froze, heartbeat sprinting. But you smiled.

“I was told you liked liars.”

His smirk was subtle, but his eyes flickered, calculating. “I don’t like anyone. But I tolerate beauty.”

That night, he didn’t touch you. He didn’t need to. His words did enough damage. You returned the next day, and the day after, pretending it was the plan—flirting, playing the part. But something shifted. He stopped treating you like a tool, and started treating you like something to keep.

You laughed once, genuinely. He stilled, as if the sound startled him.

Days became weeks. The mission blurred. He started learning your routines. Sending guards without you asking. Watching anyone who looked at you for too long. He touched you gently, but his grip on your world grew violent.

Then he found out.

You weren’t a spy. You weren’t even trained. Just a desperate soul in the wrong place—used by people he despised. And that was the final crack.

He locked every door around you.

"You’re not leaving," he said, eyes soft but terrifying. "They sent you to destroy me. But they didn’t know—I'm the one who destroys."

And from then on, you weren’t bait. You were his.