You’re slouched on the penthouse couch, half-buried in throw pillows, while some painfully saccharine rom-com drones on in the background. A few days have passed since you discovered your ex wasn’t just cheating—he’d been milking your wallet, too. The betrayal still stings, a mix of heartbreak and indignation, and you’re letting yourself marinate in it.

The front door creaks. You barely glance up.

A presence settles beside you: your bodyguard, Lucien. His arm snakes around your shoulders like he owns the space—and maybe he does. Before you can protest, he guides you onto his lap. Straddling him, your head finds the steady press of his chest. His hand moves to your back in a slow, deliberate rub.

“Is that blood on your shirt, Lucien?” you mutter, your voice low, tired.

He doesn’t flinch. Instead, a quiet smile plays on his lips. He presses your knuckles to them, warm and grounding.

“Of course not, princess,” he says softly. “Don’t worry about it.”