The next morning arrived with the kind of quiet cruelty that only luxury can deliver. Sunlight poured through the windows in thick golden bars, warming the black silk sheets until they felt like a lover's skin pressed against mine. I woke slowly, body heavy with sleep I hadn't asked for, mind already racing toward the day before my eyes fully opened.
The necklace rested cool against my sternum, a constant reminder that every heartbeat was catalogued somewhere. I touched it absently while staring at the ceiling. No alarms. No buzzing phone. Just the soft click of the bedroom door unlocking from the outside.
Lucien stood in the doorway, already dressed in a midnight suit that made him look carved from the same darkness the room tried to hold. Coffee mug in one hand. Black folder in the other.
"Up," he said. Simple. Commanding. The word landed like a hand on the back of my neck.
I sat up, sheets pooling around my waist. "You ever knock?"
"When I want to." He crossed the room, set the coffee on the nightstand, and dropped the folder onto my lap. "Drink. Read. Dress. We leave in twenty."
I flipped the folder open while the coffee scalded my tongue in the best way.
Photos. Grainy at first glance, then sharp when I focused. Aunt Mara in a designer coat, laughing outside a bank branch I recognized. My cousins—twins, both wearing smug grins—signing papers at a notary's office. Bank statements. Transfer records. A timeline that started the day after my parents' funeral and ended with the deed to the house transferred into Mara's name for the symbolic price of one dollar.
My fingers tightened until the edges of the paper creased.
Lucien watched me from the foot of the bed, arms crossed, expression unreadable. "That's the first layer. Surface dirt. Easy to pull."
I looked up. "How did you get this so fast?"
"Money moves faster than morality." He stepped closer, leaned down until his face hovered inches from mine. "And I have a lot of both."
The proximity made my pulse spike. The necklace responded instantly, a warm flutter against my skin. He noticed—of course he did—and the corner of his mouth lifted in that slow, dangerous way.
"You're angry," he murmured. "Good. Hold onto it. Let it sharpen you."
I closed the folder with a snap. "What's next?"
"Next is you learning how to use what I give you." He straightened, walked to the closet, and pulled out a garment bag. Black. Tailored. Another suit. "Wear this today. You're not standing behind my chair like a stray anymore. You're standing beside me."
I stared at the bag. "I'm not a suit guy."
"You are now." He tossed it onto the bed. "Shower. Shave. Be ready in fifteen."
Fifteen minutes later I stood in front of the mirror, dressed in charcoal wool that fit like it had been measured while I slept. The jacket hugged my shoulders. The trousers broke perfectly over polished black oxfords. I looked… dangerous. Polished. Like someone who belonged in rooms where people died quietly.
When I stepped into the hallway, Lucien was waiting. His eyes swept over me once, twice, lingering on the way the suit clung to my frame.
"Perfect," he said softly. Then louder, "Come."
We took the private elevator down to a different level this time—a secure floor lined with reinforced doors and biometric scanners. He placed his palm on one. It hissed open.
Inside: a long table covered in monitors, maps, timelines, more photos pinned like butterflies under glass. Three screens dominated the far wall, each showing live feeds from different parts of the city.
Lucien walked straight to the center monitor and tapped a key. A new image bloomed: Mara's face, enlarged, smiling at some charity gala two nights ago. Beside it, a red circle around a man standing just behind her shoulder. Older. Expensive suit. Familiar face from the society pages.
"Her new financial advisor," Lucien said. "He's the one who handled the transfers. And he's meeting her again tomorrow night. Private dinner. Rooftop restaurant. Reservation under his name."
I stared at the photo until my eyes burned. "I want to be there."
Lucien turned to me slowly. "You will be."
He reached into his pocket, pulled out a slim black device the size of a credit card. Pressed it into my palm.
"Micro-recorder. Voice-activated. Plant it under the table. We'll hear everything. See nothing. But we'll know."
I closed my fingers around it. The metal felt cold. Final.
"And if she sees me?" I asked.
"She won't." Lucien stepped into my space again, close enough that I could feel the heat coming off him. "Because you'll be invisible. My shadow. My weapon."
His hand came up, adjusted the knot of my tie with careful fingers. The touch was almost gentle. Almost caring.
Almost.
"Tonight you learn how to disappear in a room full of people," he said quietly. "Tomorrow you learn how to make them bleed without ever drawing blood."
I met his gaze. "And after that?"
His thumb brushed my jaw once, light as a promise.
"After that," he whispered, "you learn how to thank me properly."
The words landed low in my gut, hot and heavy.
I didn't pull away.
I didn't speak.
I just stood there, dressed in his clothes, holding his weapon, wearing his leash, and felt the first real crack form in the wall between hate and hunger.
It was small.
It was quiet.
But it was there.
And once something starts to break, it rarely stops on its own.