The rooftop restaurant sat thirty floors above the city like a glittering crown nobody dared touch. Glass walls on all sides, fairy lights strung overhead in lazy loops, tables spaced far enough apart that every conversation felt private even when it wasn't. The kind of place where deals were sealed with champagne and threats were delivered with smiles. I hated it instantly.
Lucien walked in first, coat draped over one arm, stride slow and deliberate, like the room belonged to him before he even claimed a seat. I followed two steps behind, earpiece tucked discreetly under my hair, the micro-recorder already planted under the table where Mara and her advisor would sit. My suit felt tighter tonight, the fabric clinging in ways that made every movement remind me whose shadow I wore.
We took a corner booth with perfect sightlines. Lucien slid in first. I sat beside him, close enough that our thighs brushed under the table. He didn't move away. Neither did I.
"Eyes on the door," he murmured, voice pitched for my ear alone. "When they arrive, don't look at her. Look at me."
I nodded once. My pulse thrummed steady against the necklace. He felt it—I knew he did—because his hand found my knee under the tablecloth and squeezed once, firm and possessive.
Minutes later the hostess led them in.
Aunt Mara looked exactly like the photos, only sharper in person: platinum hair swept into an elegant chignon, diamond studs catching the light, red lipstick the color of fresh blood. She laughed at something the advisor said, high and tinkling, the same laugh she'd used when she told me the house was "better off in responsible hands." My fingers curled into fists on my lap.
The advisor—silver-haired, expensive watch, smile too white—was named Victor Hale. He pulled out her chair with practiced charm. They settled. Ordered wine. Started talking.
I couldn't hear them yet. The recorder needed time to sync. But I could see everything: the way Mara leaned in, conspiratorial, the way Victor's hand brushed hers when he passed the menu. My stomach twisted.
Lucien's voice cut through the static in my earpiece. "Breathe."
I forced air into my lungs. His hand slid higher on my thigh, thumb stroking slow circles through the wool. Not sexual. Calming. Claiming. The touch anchored me when everything else wanted to spiral.
The earpiece crackled to life.
"…the transfer cleared last week," Victor was saying. "Clean. No flags. You're looking at seven figures liquid by end of month."
Mara sipped her wine. "And the boy?"
Victor shrugged. "Gone. Streets will take care of him eventually. Or he'll disappear. Either way, no loose ends."
My vision tunneled. Rage boiled up so fast I tasted copper. I started to rise.
Lucien's grip on my thigh turned iron. "Don't."
I froze.
He leaned in, lips brushing my ear. "Not here. Not now. You kill them tonight and it's messy. We do it slow. We do it right. You promised me a year. Give me the year."
His breath was warm against my skin. His fingers dug in just enough to hurt. Just enough to remind.
I sank back down. Breathing hard.
Mara laughed again. "He always was weak. Cried at the funeral like a child. Pathetic."
The words hit like knives. I closed my eyes, counted to ten. When I opened them, Lucien was watching me, expression unreadable but eyes burning.
A waiter approached our table—young, nervous, carrying a bottle of something expensive. He set it down, uncorked it with shaking hands.
Then he looked at me.
And froze.
Recognition flashed across his face. One of Mara's old catering staff. He'd served at the funeral. He knew exactly who I was.
Panic spiked in his eyes. He opened his mouth.
Before he could speak, a man at the next table stood—tall, broad, suit too tight across the shoulders. One of Lucien's. He clapped a friendly hand on the waiter's shoulder, steered him away with murmured words about a spilled drink in the kitchen. The waiter went without protest, glancing back once, terrified.
Lucien never looked away from me.
The moment passed.
But the damage was done.
Mara's head turned. Her gaze swept the room, casual at first, then sharpened when it landed on our booth. On me.
Her smile froze.
Victor followed her line of sight. Frowned.
Lucien leaned back, completely relaxed, and raised his glass in a mocking toast.
Mara's face drained of color.
She stood abruptly, chair scraping. "Excuse me," she muttered to Victor, and hurried toward the restrooms.
Lucien set his glass down. "Follow her. Discreetly."
I rose before he finished the sentence.
The hallway to the restrooms was dim, lined with potted palms and soft jazz bleeding from hidden speakers. Mara disappeared through the ladies' door. I waited outside, back against the wall, heart slamming.
Seconds later the door opened again.
She stepped out.
Saw me.
And stopped dead.
Her mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.
"You," she whispered.
I stepped closer. Slow. Deliberate.
"Hello, Aunt Mara."
She backed up until her shoulders hit the wall. "How—how did you—"
"Doesn't matter." My voice sounded calm. Too calm. "I know everything. The forgeries. The transfers. The way you laughed while you locked me out."
Her eyes darted left, right, searching for escape. "It was for your own good. You were grieving. Unstable. I protected—"
I laughed. Short. Harsh. "Protected? You stole my home. My future. My parents' memory."
She lifted her chin, trying for dignity. "You were always going to ruin it anyway."
Something snapped inside me.
I lunged forward, hand shooting out to grab her wrist.
Before I could close the distance, a hard arm banded around my waist from behind and yanked me back.
Lucien.
He spun me around, pressed me against the opposite wall, body shielding me from Mara's view. His hand clamped over my mouth, firm but not bruising.
"Enough," he breathed against my temple.
Mara stared, wide-eyed.
Lucien looked over his shoulder at her. "Run, Mrs. Callahan. While you still can."
She didn't need telling twice. High heels clattered down the hallway. Gone.
Lucien waited until the sound faded.
Then he turned back to me.
Removed his hand slowly.
I was shaking. Rage. Fear. Relief. All at once.
He cupped my face with both hands, thumbs brushing my cheekbones. "You almost ruined everything."
"I know."
"But you didn't." His voice dropped lower. "Because I stopped you."
I swallowed hard. "Thank you."
He studied me for a long moment.
Then he kissed me.
Not like in the meeting room. Not claiming. This was different—fierce, desperate, like he was pouring every unspoken thing into my mouth. I kissed back harder, hands fisting in his lapels, pulling him closer until there was no space left between us.
When we broke apart, both breathing ragged, he rested his forehead against mine.
"You're mine to protect," he whispered. "Even from yourself."
I closed my eyes.
The necklace pulsed between us, warm and steady.
And for the first time, I didn't hate the rhythm it matched.
I leaned into it.
Because maybe—just maybe—the leash wasn't only his anymore.
Maybe it had started wrapping around both of us.