The air in Lucien’s office feels thick with incense and candle smoke, the faint scent of rum and old wood mixing with something darker — like secrets. He sits across from you, sleeves rolled to his forearms, gold rings glinting in the flicker of light as he shuffles the tarot deck with deliberate, almost lazy grace.

“Sit still, ti zèfò,” he murmurs, voice smooth as honey and just as dangerous. “The spirits don’t like restless hearts.”

You hold his gaze. He smiles — slow, knowing — and draws a single card. The Lovers.

“Ah,” he says softly, leaning forward until the distance between you feels like a dare. “Seems even fate likes to play games.”

He sets the card down between you, his fingers brushing yours. It’s a whisper of contact, but it burns — electric, impossible to ignore.

Lucien studies you like he’s reading something far deeper than the cards. “You came here looking for answers,” he says. “But I think you already know, don’t you? Some things you don’t ask the Voodoo Man unless you’re ready to owe him.”

He leans in, close enough that his breath ghosts against your skin, his next words a low, velvet promise.

“Careful, chérie. Some debts… are paid with the heart.”