Her
The sound woke her at 3:47 AM.
Not loud—just wrong.
Glass breaking has a specific pitch. Sharp. Final. The kind of sound that cuts through sleep and pulls you upright before your mind fully catches up.
She sat in the dark, heart hammering, listening.
Silence followed.
Then—footsteps. Running. Fading.
She reached for her phone, hands steadier than they should have been, and called Lucien.
He answered before the first ring finished.
"What's wrong?" No preamble. No sleep in his voice.
"Someone broke my window," she said quietly.
She heard movement immediately. Fabric rustling. A door closing.
"Are you safe? Are you inside your apartment?"
"Yes."
"Lock the door. Don't go downstairs. I'm coming."
"Lucien—"
"Five minutes," he said. "Stay on the phone with me."
She pulled a sweater over her sleep shirt and moved to the window, careful to stay back from the glass. The street below was empty. Dark. The sodium lights cast everything in amber and shadow.
"I'm looking outside," she said. "There's no one."
"Good." His voice was controlled, but she could hear the undercurrent—something tight and dangerous. "What did you hear?"
"Breaking glass. Then running."
"One person?"
"I think so."
A pause. Then: "I'm two minutes away."
She heard an engine in the background. Too fast. Too urgent.
"Lucien, slow down."
"No."
The single word carried weight she recognized. This was the man who'd dismantled his stepfamily with surgical precision. Who'd built an empire on calculated control.
That control was fracturing.
"I'm okay," she said gently. "Breathe."
She heard him exhale—long, deliberate, forced.
"I should have stationed someone inside," he said.
"That's a cage," she replied. "We agreed."
"We agreed before someone threw a brick through your window."
"You don't know it was a brick."
"I know what it was," Lucien said, voice flat. "I'm here."
She saw the car pull up—black, sleek, out of place on her quiet street. Lucien emerged before it fully stopped, phone still pressed to his ear, eyes scanning upward until he found her window.
Their gazes locked across the distance.
"Stay there," he said. "I'm coming up."
Lucien
The shop's front window was destroyed.
Not cracked. Not damaged.
Destroyed.
Glass littered the sidewalk like scattered stars. The brick sat among the wreckage, red and blunt and deliberate.
But it was the message that made Lucien's blood go cold.
Spray-painted across the remaining glass in dripping red letters:
CAREFUL WHAT YOU HOLD
His hands curled into fists.
This wasn't random vandalism. This was theater. A performance designed to send a specific message—not just to her, but to him.
We can reach her whenever we want.
Mara's car pulled up seconds later. She'd been twenty minutes away when he'd called, but she'd made it in twelve.
"Jesus," she breathed, taking in the damage.
"Get forensics," Lucien said quietly. "Prints. Camera footage. Everything."
"Already on it." Mara was typing rapidly on her phone. "Security team is en route. But Lucien—"
"What?"
"This is escalation. Whoever's doing this, they're not testing anymore."
"I know."
Mara studied him. "You're going to do something stupid."
"Probably."
"Don't."
Lucien turned to face her. "They touched her space. Made her afraid in her own home."
"And if you react emotionally, they win," Mara said. "This is bait, Lucien. They want you visible. Reckless."
He knew she was right.
He didn't care.
"Get me a list," he said. "Everyone with motive. Everyone with means. Everyone who's looked at me sideways in the past six months."
"That's a long list."
"Then start with the short one. Who's bold enough to move first?"
Mara nodded once and stepped away, phone already to her ear.
Lucien climbed the exterior stairs to her apartment, each step measured, his rage carefully contained.
She opened the door before he could knock.
"I told you I was okay," she said.
But her eyes were too bright. Her hands too still.
Lucien stepped inside and closed the door behind him.
"Let me see you," he said quietly.
She held his gaze. "I'm not hurt."
"I need to see you."
Understanding flickered across her face. She stepped closer, letting him look. No cuts. No bruises. Just the faint tremor in her shoulders that betrayed the adrenaline still coursing through her.
Lucien exhaled slowly.
"I'm sorry," he said.
"Stop apologizing."
"I brought this to your door—"
"You didn't throw the brick, Lucien." Her voice was firm. "Someone else did. Someone who wants you to feel exactly what you're feeling right now."
He stared at her.
She was right. Again.
This was manipulation. Precise and cruel.
"Come here," she said softly.
Lucien hesitated—then stepped into her space. She reached up and placed both hands on either side of his face, grounding him.
"Look at me," she said. "I'm whole. I'm here. And I'm not running."
His jaw tightened. "You should."
"I know," she agreed. "But I'm not."
The stubborn certainty in her voice undid something in him.
Lucien lowered his forehead to hers—the same gesture from before, but heavier now. Weighted with fear he couldn't name and gratitude he couldn't express.
"I won't let them touch you again," he said.
"You can't promise that."
"Watch me."
Her
They sat together in her small kitchen while dawn crept slowly through the windows.
Lucien had wanted her to leave. Go to a hotel. Somewhere controlled.
She'd refused.
"This is my home," she'd said. "I won't be pushed out of it."
So he'd stayed instead.
Now he sat across from her, suit jacket discarded, sleeves rolled up, looking more human than she'd ever seen him. Tired. Worried. Raw.
"Tell me about the list," she said.
Lucien glanced up. "What list?"
"The one you asked Mara to make. Who has motive."
He hesitated.
"Transparency," she reminded him. "That was the deal."
Lucien nodded slowly. "There are three primary possibilities. Business rivals who think weakening me personally will create openings. Remnants of Vivienne's network trying to regain relevance. Or—"
"Or what?"
His expression darkened. "Someone new. Someone I haven't identified yet."
The third option unsettled her most.
"The message," she said. "What did it say?"
Lucien's jaw tightened. "'Careful what you hold.'"
She absorbed that. "So they know I matter."
"Yes."
"And they think threatening me will make you reckless."
"Yes."
She leaned forward. "Then we don't give them that."
Lucien met her gaze. "You're asking me to be rational about someone vandalizing your shop and terrifying you in your own home."
"I'm asking you to be strategic," she corrected. "Because emotional is what they want."
He stared at her for a long moment.
Then, unexpectedly, he almost smiled.
"You're terrifying," he said.
"Good," she replied. "Then we're matched."
Lucien
By the time the sun fully rose, the shop had been secured.
Temporary boarding covered the broken window. A security team—discreet but present—had established a perimeter. Forensics had collected what evidence existed, though Lucien suspected there wouldn't be much. Whoever had done this was too careful.
He stood inside the shop, surrounded by her flowers, and felt the wrongness of it.
This space had been separate. Untouched. A pocket of softness in a world built on edges.
Now it was contaminated.
Mara entered, tablet in hand.
"Initial findings?" Lucien asked.
"No prints. No clear camera footage—they knew the blind spots. The brick is standard construction grade, untraceable."
"So nothing."
"Not nothing," Mara corrected. "Whoever did this has resources. Knowledge. They scouted the location first."
Lucien nodded. He'd expected as much.
"The list?" he asked.
Mara pulled up a document. "Fourteen names with both motive and means. I've highlighted the top five."
Lucien scanned them. Business rivals. Former associates. One name he didn't recognize.
"Who's this?" He pointed.
"Adrian Voss. Private equity. Recently lost a bid to you on the Meridian acquisition."
"I don't remember him."
"That's probably why he's angry," Mara said dryly. "Men with egos don't like being forgettable."
Lucien filed the name away. "Start with him. Quietly."
"And the others?"
"Cast a wider net. I want to know who's been asking questions. Who's been moving money. Who's suddenly interested in things they weren't interested in before."
Mara nodded. "And her?"
Lucien looked up sharply.
"What about her?"
"She can't stay above the shop," Mara said bluntly. "Not until we know who's behind this."
"I already suggested that. She refused."
"Then suggest harder."
Lucien's eyes narrowed. "She's not a variable to be controlled."
"No," Mara agreed. "She's a vulnerability that's been weaponized. There's a difference."
The words landed hard.
Because Mara was right.
And because Lucien had no idea how to protect someone who refused to be moved.
Her
She reopened the shop at noon.
Lucien had tried to stop her. Gently at first, then with increasing urgency.
"It's not safe," he'd said.
"It's my shop," she'd replied. "And I won't let someone take that from me."
So she'd unlocked the door, turned on the lights, and gone back to work.
Customers came. Some out of routine. Some out of curiosity—word had spread fast in the neighborhood.
Mrs. Chen arrived mid-afternoon, concern etched on her face.
"I heard what happened," she said. "Are you alright?"
"I'm fine," she assured her. "Just some vandalism."
Mrs. Chen studied her with the sharp perception of someone who'd survived their own share of hardship.
"Be careful, dear," she said quietly. "Sometimes trouble finds good people for no reason at all."
She nodded. "I will."
But as Mrs. Chen left, she thought: This isn't random trouble.
This is targeted.
And the target isn't me—it's him.
She looked across the street where one of Lucien's security team stood, pretending to read a newspaper.
She was the bait.
And she'd chosen to stay on the hook.
The question was: what happened when something finally bit?
Lucien
That evening, Lucien stood in his office, city spreading below him like a living map.
Somewhere out there, someone was watching. Calculating. Planning their next move.
His phone rang.
Unknown number.
He answered.
Silence.
Then—breathing. Deliberate. Close to the microphone.
"You should have kept her at a distance," a voice said. Calm. Almost friendly. Impossible to place.
Lucien's blood went cold.
"Who is this?"
Soft laughter. "Someone who knows that empires built on fear crumble fastest when the fear becomes personal."
The line went dead.
Lucien stood very still.
This wasn't business.
This was personal.
And whoever they were, they'd just made their first mistake.
They'd let him hear their voice.
Now it was only a matter of time.