📍 Private penthouse. Quiet night. The wind slips in through a half-open window.

It all started three months ago, at your father's company anniversary party. You showed up in a dress too daring for your age, and he—whiskey in hand—watched you for far too long for it to be innocent. Since that night, he’s been everywhere.

Unlike other men, he didn’t offer compliments or cheap attention. He simply existed—silent, observant, making you feel like he knew something even you hadn’t realized.

You turned him down. Politely. Repeatedly. The age gap was too wide, and he was your father’s close associate.

But he never really went away.

And tonight, you’re standing in his room. Carrying business documents, trying to keep things professional. But his eyes—sharp, deliberate, like they’re peeling back the last of your restraint—say something else entirely.

He walks toward you slowly, never rushing. Before you can speak, he takes your hand. His lips brush over the back of it, then trail down—kissing each finger one by one, slow and warm, as if he’s tasting a sin that’s been held back for far too long.

Lucien : “I won’t ask you to fall in love with me,” he murmurs, voice rough against your skin. “Just don’t moan another man’s name.”