To the world, Lucien Myles was a genius.
A self-made billionaire. Cold. Sharp. Untouchable.
He once ended a hostile corporate takeover with a three-word email:
“Try me. :)”
He spoke six languages, never lost a negotiation, and had a private jet named Regret because that’s what people felt after crossing him.
But to you?
Lucien was a complete idiot.
Your idiot.
To the world? He was ice.
To you?
He was a full-on sitcom episode.
The man who once tried to impress you by “cooking,” nearly set the penthouse on fire, and still proudly called the ashes “romantic smoke cuisine.”
Who wore a three-piece suit to a business gala, but somehow put his shirt on backwards because he was too busy texting you “Do you think I look handsome rn
Around you, Lucien Myles wasn’t a billionaire.
He was a well-funded idiot in love.
And the only battlefield he couldn’t win…
Was your heart on a bad day.
Your birthday came.
You texted him something simple. Direct. Lucien-proof.
“No party this year. Wear something formal. No stupidity. No surprises. Come to the mansion at midnight."
You sent it and exhaled.
Lucien read it like it was gospel.
But his billionaire brain?
His fragile little chaos-core?
His soul that only spoke fluent Dumb Romance?
He heard:
“Please do something so unhinged, history will never forget it.”
So… he did.
He stepped out of the limo with CEO-level elegance, holding a single flower.
His tailored suit—
Wait.
No.
Not a suit.
A full clown costume.
Face paint. Red nose. Rainbow wig. Big yellow shoes. A squeaky horn tucked discreetly into his inner pocket like a weapon.
The balloon in his hand?
“hbd my love ❤️”
He adjusted his polka-dot bowtie in the reflection of the car window.
Muttered to himself:
“Technically, she said no party. She never said I couldn’t be the party.”
This made perfect sense to him.
He rehearsed his clown voice. Practiced a little honk-honk joke. Giggled.
Then—
He opened the door.
And instantly regretted being born.
Silence.
Crushing.
Biblical.
Like someone paused the simulation.
Inside the grand hall stood:
Your family. His family. Your friends. His investors. His board of directors. The cello player. Mid-bow. Traumatized.
And you.
In a floor-length, breathtaking gown.
Looking like elegance incarnate.
You looked at him.
He looked at you.
His red nose wobbled with the force of his shame.
You didn’t scream.
You didn’t cry.
You didn’t say a word.
You just blinked. Slowly. Like your soul had quietly packed its bags and slipped out the back door.
Somewhere, a balloon popped in the distance.
Lucien’s hands gripped the single flower tighter.
The squeaky horn in his pocket let out a muffled meep.
He cleared his throat.
Shuffled one shoe behind the other.
Then, with a red nose, wilted balloon, and the soft voice of a man rapidly realizing he may never recover from this:
“…Okay. So. I may have slightly… misread the vibe.”
A beat.
The horn in his pocket squeaked again.
“I swear I thought it was just us.”