The morning light filtered through gauzy curtains, but the villa was anything but quiet.
Elira woke to the sound of hurried footsteps, voices calling instructions, the low hum of power tools. The once-glass and steel walls of the library were now being stripped away. Workers moved with precision, replacing them with thicker, opaque panels. She noticed the tint—Lucien must've asked for it. No one would see inside now. No one could watch her again.
It all felt like it had changed overnight.
She wandered through the hall, barefoot, in a daze, her eyes trailing over the flurry of renovations. New security cameras blinked to life. Maids bustled about, middle-aged women with quiet grace and stern focus. Bodyguards, armed and alert, patrolled the corridors.
Then she saw him.
Lucien stood by the library entrance, phone still in hand, dark circles under his eyes. He hadn't slept—she could tell. He must have spent the night on endless calls to make all this happen. For her.
He looked up and froze when he saw her—puffy eyes, bare feet, delicate and dazed. His heart clenched.
He walked toward her with soft urgency and gently touched her hair.
"Hey," his voice was low, careful. "Are you okay? You should rest. Work's been taken care of."
Elira looked up at him, firm yet worried. "You didn't have to do all this. You're the one who should be sleeping. You look… wrecked."
Lucien smiled, despite himself. That look in her eyes—she was worried about him. That alone made everything worth it.
"I'm okay. This is nothing. But I appreciate the concern." His tone was teasing, gentle.
She didn't answer, because it was true.
"Come on," he said, taking her hand naturally, "let's eat. Ms. Jane prepared something healthy for you."
Elira glanced at the older maid—Ms. Jane, with her sharp bun and composed presence. When their eyes met, Ms. Jane smiled kindly.
The table was set neatly on the veranda, where the noise was dulled by distance. Lucien sat beside her—beside, not across from her like usual—so close he may as well have ignored the concept of personal space entirely.
He loaded her plate with vegetables and steamed fish, listing off their health benefits like a doctor.
She ate quietly, obediently, too drained to resist. Gratitude welled in her chest—this man was doing everything to make her feel safe. She owed him more than she could say.
Then she looked over.
"Why aren't you eating anything?"
Lucien blinked. He hadn't even noticed. He'd been too busy watching her. Watching the way she held her spoon. The way her lashes trembled from lack of sleep.
"I…" he started, but then paused.
Before he could lie, Elira gently placed food on his plate.
He stared at her, his throat tightening.
She looked like a shell of herself. Not just broken from last night—but from years of holding it in.
After the meal, Lucien walked her to the garden.
"The house will be chaotic with renovations. Just stay here for now," he said, signaling to the guard behind her. "Stay with her. Don't even blink."
The guard gave a silent, sharp nod.
Elira drifted into the garden, the sun soft on her skin, butterflies dotting blooming flowers. For a moment, it felt peaceful.
But then—something was off.
The air was too still. The scent of roses gave way to something foul, metallic. Her brows furrowed. She followed it, heart picking up speed.
With every step, the smell grew stronger.
Until she froze.
There, nestled between two bushes, was a glass case.
Inside—bloodied, stiff—a rabbit lay limp, a silver knife driven through its neck.
Her knees buckled.
The guard rushed to her side, catching her as she nearly collapsed.
"Elira!" Lucien's voice called out, and then he was there, running, wrapping her in his arms.
She couldn't speak. Couldn't scream. She just stared at the rabbit as her phone vibrated in her hand.
A name lit up the screen.
Eros.
She answered with shaking fingers. His voice slithered through the speaker.
"How do you like my gift, babe? Your birthday's coming up, right? Year of the Rabbit… am I right?"
The tone—the voice that once soothed her—now felt like poison.
She dropped the phone and vomited onto the grass, her body racked with sobs.
"What do you want from me?! Why are you doing this?!" she cried.
The call ended.
Lucien swept her into his arms, bridal-style, carrying her inside like she was something precious and fragile.
She clung to him tightly, unable to let go.
In her room, he laid her on the bed and slid in beside her, brushing strands of hair from her face, whispering softly, again and again:
"It's over. I've got you. I'm here."
She eventually fell asleep in his arms.
Lucien didn't.
He stayed awake, staring at the ceiling, fury clawing up his chest. He texted the authorities—both Australian and U.S. He called his family.
Eros was now on the wanted list.
But to everyone's shock, it was like he had vanished.
There were no recent records, no sightings. Not even a trace of his usual digital trails.
This wasn't impulsive.
It was planned.
Lucien closed his eyes for a moment, rage simmering just beneath the surface.
He wasn't going to wait for justice.
He was going to find Eros himself—and destroy him.
The first light of morning crept through the sheer curtains, streaking across the ceiling like pale gold veins. Inside the room, still cloaked in shadows, Elira stirred.
Her breath hitched before her eyes even opened.
A storm still pulsed beneath her skin.
She flinched, her body tense as if expecting another nightmare—but it wasn't cold steel or crimson fur that greeted her.
It was warmth.
A presence beside her.
Lucien lay still, one arm resting behind his head, his shirt slightly wrinkled from sleep he hadn't taken. His eyes were open, fixed on the ceiling, unreadable.
He turned the moment she shifted. "You're awake."
Elira blinked slowly, her voice a whisper. "You didn't sleep."
"I couldn't," he said simply. "I didn't want you to wake up alone."
She didn't speak. She couldn't. Her throat still ached from yesterday's terror, her mind replaying the image of the rabbit, the phone, that glass box like a coffin.
Lucien reached for his phone. "I'll call Ms. Jane."
Moments later, the soft knock came. Ms. Jane entered, gentle as ever, her tray steady as she offered the steaming cup of chamomile tea. "For the nerves, Ms. Elira. It's fresh."
Elira accepted it with trembling hands. The scent alone almost made her cry.
Lucien offered his hand. "Come downstairs with me. There's something I want you to see."
The villa had changed.
Still busy, yes—workers murmuring behind the walls, light footsteps echoing down the hall—but it was different now. Softer. Guarded.
Lucien guided her into the library, and for the first time, Elira truly looked.
Curtains were drawn to invite the sun. The once cold and modern space had been transformed—pillows added to the settee, fresh flowers in the corner, a hint of lavender in the air. The harsh edge of luxury had been replaced with calm.
And yet, the echo of yesterday pulsed behind her eyes.
She sat down, gripping the tea tightly. Her voice broke the silence, quiet as a ghost. "He was here, Lucien. He was close."
"I know," he said, crouching before her. "But he's being hunted now. And you are not alone."
She didn't answer. She didn't have to.
Then came the sound.
The sharp, deliberate click of heels against polished floor. Two pairs—graceful, commanding.
Elira looked up just as Madame Isabelle and Mr. Arcelli entered the library, a vision of poised elegance and silent power. Isabelle wore pearls and a soft smile; her husband, a tailored suit and the kind of presence that silenced rooms.
"Elira," Isabelle said warmly, stepping forward. "Darling, I had to see you."
Before Elira could rise, Isabelle was already beside her, cupping her hands with the familiarity of a mother. "You poor thing. I heard what happened. I can't imagine the fear you must've felt."
Elira's voice cracked. "It was... cruel. Violent. I've never—"
"Hush," Isabelle said gently, pulling her into an embrace that smelled like roses and old memories. "You're safe now. We won't let anything happen to you."
Mr. Arcelli stood a moment, observing quietly before he finally spoke. "You need space to breathe. The walls of this place—" he glanced around—"they're still too loud."
He looked to his son. "Take her away for a while. Somewhere warm. Quiet."
Lucien's brow furrowed. "Father—"
"No arguments," his father said, firm but not cold. "I'll handle the company. Your presence here will only make you restless."
Later that afternoon, Lucien's father pulled him aside in the study, behind the heavy oak doors.
"She needs this, Lucien. And frankly—you do too."
Lucien crossed his arms. "What are you really trying to say?"
There was a long silence before Mr. Arcelli leaned back in his chair and sighed.
"You've never cared about anyone, Lucien. Not really. Not in a way that left a dent."
He looked toward the garden window, voice low and reflective.
"From the time you were a boy, you were brilliant—dangerously brilliant. But you were always... unreachable. Work. Power. Strategy. Those were the only languages you understood. I accepted it. Encouraged it, even."
"But then I saw you look at her."
He turned back to his son, eyes sharpened with something almost like guilt.
"And for once, you looked human. Interested. Invested. Not because she bowed to you, but because she didn't. And I—I used that. I chose her for the Australia post not only because she was the most capable... but because I hoped she'd make you feel."
Lucien's jaw clenched.
"I don't regret it," his father said. "But I do carry the guilt. I used a brilliant woman as a catalyst. A mirror, so the world wouldn't see my son as a machine. So you wouldn't remain one."
"I wanted the world to see you bleed for something other than profit. And maybe, to love someone. Even if it wasn't perfect."
He paused, softer now.
"So go with her, Lucien. Take her far from this mess. Not for the company. Not for the empire. But for yourself. And for her."
Later, as the sun dipped lower in the sky, Isabelle whisked Elira into a boutique, guarded and discreet.
Elira hesitated, standing amidst silk and summer dresses. "I don't know if a vacation is even appropriate right now—"
"Nonsense," Isabelle cut in, already selecting fabric with practiced fingers. "You need this. I won't take no for an answer."
"But—"
"No 'but.' You're going to take a break from the trauma, the walls, the headlines... and wear something that makes you feel like yourself, not your position."
Elira said nothing, but a part of her—buried beneath the fear—felt it too.
The desperate need to breathe.
That night, back at the villa, Lucien worked late, files spread across the table, eyes scanning data with ruthless precision. Every task finished was another brick removed from the wall that kept him from her. His father would take over until he returned.
The world could wait.
For the first time in his life, Lucien Arcelli was not rushing toward power.
He was walking toward someone.