The ride home is quiet. Not the kind of awkward silence that begs to be filled, but the heavy, stretched-out kind that settles in when both people are too tired to pretend. It almost feels like a truce.
I lean my head back against the seat, staring out the window as the city lights blur past.
My thoughts are slow, muddled. I'm running on fumes, the adrenaline from earlier crashing hard now.
At some point, my head tilts sideways and lands on Lucien's shoulder. Not on purpose of course -it just happens, like gravity made the choice for me. Which sucks.
He doesn't move.
Doesn't flinch. Doesn't shift away. Just... sits there.
Maybe he doesn't notice. Or maybe he does and just doesn't care. Or maybe he's as drained as I am and can't bring himself to push me off.
It's hard to tell.
The car slows as we reach the top of the hill, tires crunching softly over gravel.
I sit up a little straighter, blinking against the soft glow of lights lining the drive. And then I see it.
The mansion.
It's massive. Not in a gaudy, look-at-me way-but in the quiet, terrifying way that rich people build when they don't need to prove anything to anyone.
Clean lines. Glass everywhere. Pale stone that seems to glow in the dark.
Every surface is polished, every corner sharp, every light placed just so. Even the air feels different up here -cooler, stiller, like the world got quieter on purpose.
Lucien steps out and my side opens a second later.
I step out of the car, and for a second, I just stand there.
It's beautiful, sure. But it's also... too much. Too clean. Too quiet. The kind that gets inside your ears and makes you feel like you're holding your breath.
I force my legs to move. Everything aches. Even breathing feels like effort.
I fall into step beside him without thinking, close enough that our arms almost brush. I don't lean on him, not this time, but it would be so easy to.
The front doors are framed by tall windows, and through them I can see a chandelier so delicate it looks like it might shatter if you so much as looked at it wrong.
Lucien says nothing as we head up the steps. He doesn't look back to see if I'm keeping up. He doesn't have to.
My boots make the softest thud against the stone, and I swear the sound bounces back at me like I don't belong here.
And maybe I don't.
Because this place -it doesn't just feel rich. It feels untouchable. Like a museum after hours.
Pretty, but cold. Huge, but empty.
The massive front doors swing open as we approach, and Henderson, of course, is waiting. He seems to exist solely to appear precisely when you need him, or when Lucien needs him to manage you.
Inside, everything's white and glass and stone. Expensive in that effortless, impossible-to-live-in kind of way. It looks like the kind of place where nothing ever gets spilled. Where people don't sit on couches-they perch.
I walk through the door, eyes catching on a marble staircase that curves like something out of a dream. Or a movie. Or a lie.
I don't even know what to look at first. The vaulted ceiling? The gallery wall? The way everything smells faintly like clean linen and whatever money probably smells like?
It's impressive. Overwhelming. And not even a little bit home.
He nods curtly.
"Good evening, Mr. Holt," he says, then turns to me. "Mrs. Holt, your wing has been prepared. Everything you might need is there."
He gestures down a dimly lit hallway. No shared goodnights. No pretense of a shared life once the cameras are gone.
Figures.
My heart, which had briefly dared to hope for some kind of softening, deflates.
I nod, too tired to even fake a polite response. Lucien doesn't look at me, already heading towards the other side.
Henderson offers me a polite, if distant, smile.
"If you require anything, Ms. Holt, please don't hesitate to call for assistance. The staff are available twenty-four hours."
I just want to sleep for a hundred years.
I force my weary feet to move, down the endless hallway to my "wing." The moment the door closes behind me, I practically collapse.
My room is enormous. The lights are soft, casting a warm glow over lavish furniture and rich fabrics. A king-sized bed, piled high with impossibly soft pillows, beckons like a cloud.
Then I notice it. The walk-in closet meticulously organized. Rows of dresses, hanging neatly, seem to shimmer in the light. Skirts, blouses, jackets, casual wear - all arranged by color, by style.
And shoes. So many shoes. All designer. All new. And all, impossibly, my size.
It's creepy. And overwhelming. They must have had my measurements, my style preferences (or lack thereof), my everything, all perfectly mapped out.
I'm a data point. A project. The thought makes my skin crawl. It's a testament to Lucien's control. He buys the person, and then he buys them a wardrobe.
I pick up a silk nightgown, soft and delicate, and feel a surge of bizarre emotion. It's beautiful. It's also not me.
I'm a t-shirt and sweatpants kind of girl.
I pull out my phone. My fingers hover over Leo's contact. I need to hear his voice. I need to reassure myself that he's safe, that this was all worth it, even if I'm losing myself in the process.
He answers on the first ring, his voice raspy with sleep. "Darcy? What's up? Is everything okay?"
"Hey, sleepyhead," I try to sound bright, normal. "Yeah, everything's fine. Just calling to say... I won't be coming home tonight. Or for a while, probably."
A beat of silence. "What? Why not? Did something happen?" His voice is laced with worry.
"No, no, nothing bad," I rush to reassure him, glancing nervously at the silent opulence around me. "Just... taking care of things. I'm staying at some place nice for a bit. It's... complicated."
Complicated is an understatement.
"Don't wait up, okay? Get some rest. I'll call you tomorrow."
"Okay," he says, still sounding unsure. "But... are you sure you're okay? You sound... weird."
"Just tired," I insist, forcing a small laugh. "Long day. I'm fine, Leo. Really. You enjoy yourself. That's all that matters."
"Okay," he repeats, a little more convinced. "Love you, Darcy."
"Love you too," I whisper, my voice thick with tears at the brink of falling. I hang up, the phone before I can breakdown right there with him on the other side.
He's safe. He's free. That's the only thing that matters.
I change into the silk nightgown, feeling utterly ridiculous but too exhausted to care. It's soft against my skin, surprisingly comforting. I crawl into the big bed, sinking into the luxurious softness.
The mansion is silent. No Mrs. Katia shouting. No Mr. Orange purring. Just... me. Alone in this perfect, empty space.
I stare at the ceiling, my mind replaying the heated fight with Lucien, the flash of cold anger in his eyes.
What kind of life is this?
A life of designer clothes, silent mansions, and explosive arguments with a man who could buy and sell me a thousand times over? A life where I'm an imposter, a wife on paper, a tool for his public image.
I close my eyes, the exhaustion pulling me under.
What kind of life would I be living?
A complicated one for sure. A dangerous one. And somehow, despite everything, I
have a feeling it's just getting started.