Lucian leaned back in his office chair, the city lights stretching far beyond the glass behind him, blurring into a cold wash of gray and gold.
His fingers gripped his phone tightly, jaw clenched as the screen blinked:
Call Failed. Access Denied.
Again.
Another attempt blocked.
He'd tried every channel—personal, assistant, even a direct visit—but security at the Winslow estate didn't even let him past the gate. And today, his calls weren't even ringing.
He stared at the message again, then stood abruptly and walked to the sideboard. Pouring a splash of scotch into a crystal glass, he tossed it back in one gulp.
"Damn it, Caliste…"
Was this really happening?
Was she… shutting him out?
After a long moment, Lucian grabbed his phone again and found the contact he never thought he'd use unless for formality.
Gregory Winslow.
He hesitated.
Then pressed Call.
It rang once. Twice.
Then—
"Lucian."
The older man's voice was cold and calm, like a blade dipped in ice.
"Mr. Winslow—" Lucian's voice was steadier than he expected. "Father. I... I'm calling to apologize. For everything that's happened. I should've handled the situation with Mirana better. I understand how it looks, but I swear I'm trying to—"
"Cut to the point."
Lucian exhaled, pinching the bridge of his nose.
"I want to speak to Caliste. I know she's there. Please, just a minute—"
There was a pause. The sound of faint clinking china in the background, like Gregory was at dinner.
Then the man spoke. "I didn't block your calls or blacklist you from the estate."
Lucian's brows furrowed. "What?"
"That order came from Caliste herself," Gregory said flatly. "She said she needs peace. Space. A chance to breathe."
Lucian's breath caught.
"She asked for no contact," Gregory added. "And for once, I'm inclined to agree with her."
The words were a clean, brutal cut to the chest.
"She…" Lucian's voice faltered. "She blocked me?"
"She's not a child, Lucian. And not a pawn to be played when you finally decide to feel something," Gregory said. "You let her become the subject of a media circus. My daughter deserves better than whispers and tabloid shame."
"I never meant for that to happen."
"But it did." A beat passed. "If you truly care about her—give her what she asked for."
The line clicked.
Disconnected.
Lucian stood frozen, the silence in his penthouse loud and absolute. He slowly lowered the phone, staring at the blank screen.
Caliste had chosen to shut him out.
Not her father.
Not a scandal.
Not society.
Her.
She had locked the door between them with her own hand… and he didn't know how to pry it open without breaking it down.
He turned to the window again, watching as the rain began to mist against the glass.
And for the first time in a long time, Lucian Velmore didn't have a plan.
Just an ache he didn't know how to silence.
----
(Caliste POV)
The golden lights of the Winslow estate shimmered softly outside her window, but Caliste barely noticed them.
She sat curled in the bay window of her childhood bedroom, a thick throw draped over her shoulders, her phone in hand.
23 missed calls.
All from Lucian.
She didn't delete them.
Didn't answer either.
Her fingers hovered over the screen for a moment, her thumb brushing over his name.
Lucian Velmore.
The man she married for convenience, power, family reputation—whatever label the world chose to slap on it.
The man who kissed and touched her like he meant it… and then broke her trust the very next day.
She'd asked for space. Peace.
And yet, her heart still beat faster every time his name flashed.
"Caliste."
Her father's voice interrupted the stillness. She turned, hiding the screen quickly as Gregory stepped inside.
He walked over and set down a tray—chamomile tea, honey biscuits, and the tiniest flicker of fatherly care she rarely saw.
She blinked in surprise.
"Did you... make these?"
Gregory ignored the question and sat across from her. "You've been quiet all day."
"I needed quiet."
He gave a slow nod. "Lucian called me."
Her lips pressed together. "I figured he would."
"He asked for you. Apologized."
"I don't want apologies," she murmured. "I want honesty. I want peace from being in a marriage that feels like a negotiation room."
Gregory studied her, his usual stern expression replaced by something gentler. "Do you regret marrying him?"
Caliste paused. "I regret... not protecting my heart."
Her father didn't answer. He just reached for her hand and held it gently.
"You've always been stronger than people give you credit for," he said. "If you need time, take it. But remember—running from pain doesn't heal it."
"I'm not running."
"Maybe not," Gregory said. "But you're certainly hiding."
She looked out the window again, her reflection faint in the glass. Was she?
Or was she just… tired?
---
(Lucian's POV)
Lucian leaned against the bar in his penthouse, sleeves rolled up, jaw unshaven, whiskey glass untouched beside him.
The media blackout. Caliste's silence. Gregory's final words still echoing in his head.
He was so used to controlling outcomes—hostile takeovers, boardroom deals, political dinners.
But with Caliste?
He was losing.
And it wasn't a game he knew how to win.
The elevator chimed.
Lucian didn't move.
Seconds later, a familiar voice rang through the quiet space.
"Brooding suits you. Though the caveman look?" A smirk. "Not so much."
Lucian turned to see Tristan Grey, tall, sharp in a navy blazer, two glasses of scotch in hand.
"I didn't ask you to come."
"And yet here I am." Tristan handed him a glass and flopped onto the couch like he owned it.
Lucian stared at him. "What do you want?"
"To remind you you're an idiot." He sipped his drink. "You kissed your wife in front of half the city, and two days later, your ex claims you knocked her up. Then you're surprised she ran?"
"I didn't—" Lucian stopped himself. "Mirana's lying. I'm handling it."
"No. You're damage-controlling it." Tristan set his glass down. "But are you fighting for Caliste? Or are you just fighting your own guilt?"
Lucian didn't answer.
Tristan stood, walked over, and clapped a hand on his shoulder.
"She's not a deal to close, Lucian. She's a woman who started falling for you despite herself. And you broke that."
"I didn't mean to hurt her," Lucian muttered.
"Then fix it. Not with press releases or gifts." His gaze narrowed. "Show her what she means. Before she stops waiting."
Lucian looked away, jaw tight, throat dry.
Because deep down, he knew—
She wasn't waiting anymore.
And he was running out of time to make her believe… he never wanted anyone but her.