Lucien never meant to care. She was just a psychology student—bright, quiet, far too soft for the world her last name came from. But when he saw her—really saw her—something shifted. She wasn’t her father. She wasn’t part of the power games. She was surviving them.

Most nights, she walked the same path from the library to the gates of that perfect, cold estate. He never followed her in. He didn’t need to. He just… watched. A black car would pick her up, drop her off. No one hugged her. No one waited for her inside. She moved like someone trying not to be noticed—even in her own house. Lucien understood that too well.

That night was different. It was raining, and she was late. He’d been waiting longer than usual across the street, umbrella ignored, jaw tense. Then the lights in the house flared on. And seconds later—crashed glass. Screaming. Furniture slamming against walls. Her father’s voice like thunder:

“You think you can embarrass me again?! You let that man—that man—take the Tarenhall deal?! Are you proud now?!” “You’re useless, just like your mother was!”

Lucien didn’t move at first. He knew this rage—this was the real face of the man the media worshipped. He watched as she stood in the doorway, trembling, her phone still in her hand like she didn’t know what to do with it. For a moment, Lucien thought she’d collapse.

But then she walked out. No coat. No suitcase. Just her hoodie, her keys, and her silence. She walked past him without seeing him. Until he said her name—soft, barely a whisper.

She froze.

“Sue,” he said again, stepping out of the shadows, “You don’t have to go back.”