Lucien
Lucien stopped going to the flower shop.
Not suddenly. Not with explanation.
He simply... stopped.
The decision had been made at 4 AM, three days after the vandalism, after another sleepless night spent watching security feeds and chasing ghosts through financial records.
The voice on the phone haunted him.
You should have kept her at a distance.
They were right.
He had made her visible. Had stood too close, lingered too long, let his guard slip in ways that predators recognized and exploited.
The solution was obvious.
Surgical.
If proximity was the weapon, distance would be the shield.
So he stayed away.
He sent Mara instead—twice daily, different times, always with a reason. Checking on security. Delivering updates. Maintaining the appearance of protection without his presence.
Mara reported back each time: She's fine. The shop is secure. No incidents.
Lucien nodded and returned to his work.
Dismantling threats required focus. He threw himself into the investigation with the same methodical intensity he'd once used to dismantle Vivienne's influence. Phone records. Financial trails. Every person who'd looked at him sideways in the past year.
The list grew. Then narrowed. Then grew again.
Adrian Voss had an alibi—airtight, verified, irrelevant.
Two other names dropped off for lack of means.
But three remained. And one new name emerged from the shadows: a shell company, registered offshore, moving money in patterns that felt familiar but couldn't be traced.
Lucien worked sixteen-hour days.
Came home to an empty penthouse.
Stood at windows that framed a city he controlled but couldn't make safe.
And did not—absolutely did not—think about the way her hands had felt against his face. The steadiness in her voice when she'd said I'm not running.
The fact that he was the one running now.
Her
She noticed his absence on the second day.
Not because she'd been expecting him—but because the space he usually occupied felt suddenly, obviously empty.
Mara came instead.
Professional. Courteous. Thoroughly uncomfortable with whatever assignment she'd been given.
"Lucien asked me to check in," Mara said the first time, as if reading from a script.
"Is he alright?" she asked.
"He's busy."
"That's not what I asked."
Mara's expression flickered—something like respect, quickly concealed.
"He's managing the situation," Mara said carefully. "It requires his full attention."
Translation: He's avoiding you.
She nodded slowly. "I see."
Mara left. The shop felt smaller somehow.
By the fourth day, a pattern had established itself.
Mara in the morning. Mara in the evening. Always brief. Always professional. Always carrying unspoken messages that Lucien himself wouldn't deliver.
He's protecting you by staying away.
This is strategy, not abandonment.
He thinks distance will keep you safe.
She understood the logic. Truly.
But understanding didn't make the absence hurt less.
Lucien
On the sixth day, Lucien almost broke.
He was three blocks from the shop, returning from a meeting that had run late, when his feet simply... carried him in that direction.
Muscle memory. Instinct. The pull of something he'd been denying for days.
He stopped half a block away.
The shop lights were on. He could see her silhouette through the glass—moving between arrangements, alive and whole and entirely unaware he was watching.
His phone buzzed.
Mara: Don't.
He looked around and spotted her car, parked discreetly. She was watching him watch the shop.
His jaw tightened.
Lucien turned and walked away.
But not before he saw her pause at the window—as if she'd felt something. As if she knew.
Her
She felt him before she saw him.
Or thought she did.
It was late evening, the shop nearly empty, and suddenly the air shifted. That particular heaviness that accompanied his presence—like gravity bending slightly in his direction.
She moved to the window and looked out.
The street was empty.
But something in her chest insisted: He was here.
She pulled out her phone and typed a message she'd been composing for days.
I know what you're doing.
She stared at the words. Deleted them. Tried again.
Distance doesn't erase proximity. You already made the choice.
Delete.
You're a coward.
Delete.
Finally, she settled on something simpler.
I miss you.
Her thumb hovered over send.
She didn't press it.
Because he already knew. And if he was staying away despite knowing, then words wouldn't change anything.
Only action would.
Lucien
The breakthrough came on the eighth day.
Not from the investigation—though that continued, relentless and methodical.
From something smaller. Stupider.
Lucien had been reviewing security footage—his own building, cross-referencing visitors against known associates—when he saw it.
A man in an expensive coat.
The same man from the flower shop.
He froze the frame. Enhanced it. Ran facial recognition.
Nothing.
But the posture was familiar. The careful way he moved. The deliberate avoidance of direct camera angles.
This was someone trained. Professional.
And he'd been in Lucien's building three weeks ago.
Before the photograph. Before the vandalism. Before any of this became visible.
"Mara," Lucien said into his phone.
"I'm looking at the same footage," she replied. "I see him."
"He was scouting."
"Yes."
"Which means this isn't reactive. It's planned."
Mara was quiet for a moment. "Lucien, if this is that organized—"
"Then distance doesn't matter," he finished. "They already know where to find her."
The realization hit like cold water.
He'd been playing the wrong game.
Staying away didn't protect her. It just meant she faced the danger alone.
"I'm going to her," Lucien said.
"Finally," Mara replied. "I'll send backup."
"No." Lucien was already moving, grabbing his jacket. "Send it to the building. I want eyes on every entrance. But I'm going alone."
"Lucien—"
"She's angry enough. I'm not showing up with an army."
He ended the call.
Her
She was closing when she heard the knock.
Not on the front door—on the back entrance, the one only she used.
Her heart jumped—then dropped.
She knew that knock. Measured. Deliberate. The same rhythm he'd use on her shop door before he stopped coming.
Eight days of absence crystallized into this single moment.
She crossed the shop, boots echoing on hardwood, and stopped with her hand on the lock. Her pulse hammered against her throat. Anger warred with relief warred with something dangerously close to need.
"It's me," Lucien's voice came through the door. Rough. Uncertain.
She closed her eyes and exhaled slowly.
Of course it's you.
She opened the door.
He stood in the alley, coat unbuttoned despite the cold, hair disheveled like he'd been running his hands through it. His eyes—god, his eyes—looked haunted. Exhausted. Desperate in a way she'd never seen.
The space between them felt charged. Electric.
"You stopped coming," she said, voice steadier than she felt.
"I know."
"For eight days."
"I know." His hands flexed at his sides, like he was physically restraining himself from reaching for her.
"Why?"
Lucien swallowed hard, his throat working. "Because I thought distance would keep you safe."
"And now?"
"Now I know I was wrong." His voice cracked slightly on the last word.
She studied him—really looked at him. The tension in his shoulders. The way he stood perfectly still, as if movement would shatter whatever fragile control he was maintaining. This man who commanded empires but couldn't command his own fear.
Her anger didn't disappear. But underneath it, something else stirred.
"Come inside," she said.
He hesitated, and she saw it—the war happening behind his eyes. Stay or go. Risk or retreat.
"I don't want to make things worse," he said.
"You already did," she replied, sharper than intended. "By leaving."
The words hit him like a physical blow. She watched him flinch, watched him absorb the impact.
"I'm sorry," he said quietly.
She should have stepped back. Should have held her ground.
Instead, she reached out and grabbed his tie, pulling him inside.
He stumbled forward, surprise flashing across his face as she closed the door behind him and turned the lock with a decisive click.
They stood in the narrow back hallway, close enough that she could feel the heat radiating from him, see the way his chest rose and fell with uneven breaths.
"Stop apologizing," she said, still gripping his tie. "And tell me why you really came back."
Lucien
The shop felt impossibly small.
Or maybe he just felt impossibly large—too much need, too much fear, too much of everything he'd spent eight days trying to bury.
Her hand still gripped his tie, keeping him close, and he could smell her—earth and flowers and something uniquely her that made his chest ache.
"Why did you really come back?" she asked again.
Lucien's hands trembled. He clenched them into fists.
"Because distance doesn't work," he said roughly. "Because whoever's doing this already knows about you. Because staying away just meant you faced it alone."
"And?" She stepped closer, closing what little space remained. "What else?"
His jaw worked. "Because I—"
"Say it."
"Because I couldn't stay away," he admitted, voice breaking. "Because eight days felt like drowning. Because every instinct I have tells me to run but the only thing worse than being near you is being without you."
Her breath caught.
"Mara said you were working," she said, but her voice was softer now.
"I was." Lucien looked down at where her hand still held his tie. "Finding who's doing this. Tracking money. Chasing shadows. Anything to justify staying away."
"And did you find them?"
"Getting closer." His hands lifted slowly, hovering near her waist but not quite touching. "But not fast enough."
She released his tie and pressed both palms flat against his chest. He felt the contact like electricity.
"So you decided to punish us both by staying away?" she asked.
"I wasn't trying to punish—"
"Yes, you were." Steel underneath the softness. "You were punishing yourself for caring. And punishing me for making you care."
Lucien's hands finally—finally—settled on her waist. Solid. Real.
"I don't know how to do this," he said hoarsely. "Everyone I've ever cared about gets hurt because of me."
"People you isolate get hurt too," she countered. "Just differently."
"You think I was safer this week?" she continued, voice rising slightly. "With you gone? I wasn't. I was just alone. With your security watching me like I was evidence instead of a person."
The words gutted him.
"The security was supposed to—"
"The security isn't you," she interrupted. "And I didn't choose security. I chose you."
Something cracked open in his chest—something he'd been holding closed with both hands for eight days.
"I'm terrified," he admitted. "That caring about you will destroy you."
"And I'm terrified," she replied, tilting her face up to his, "that your fear will destroy us before we even have a chance."
The honesty hung between them—raw, exposed, impossible to ignore.
Lucien's hands tightened on her waist, pulling her closer. She didn't resist. Her palms slid up his chest to his shoulders, anchoring them both.
"I thought distance was protection," he said.
"It's not," she whispered. "It's just you being afraid."
He searched her face—looking for doubt, for hesitation, for any sign that this was a mistake.
He found only determination.
"I missed you," he said quietly. "Every day. Every hour."
"I know," she whispered. "I felt it. Like something vital was missing."
Lucien lowered his forehead to hers—but this time it felt different. Heavier. Weighted with eight days of absence and the desperate relief of return.
"I'm sorry I left," he said against her skin.
"I know," she repeated. "Don't do it again."
"I won't. I swear."
"Promise me."
"I promise," he said, and meant it with everything he had. "No more running. No more deciding for both of us."
She pulled back just enough to look him in the eye.
"We're better together than apart," she said.
"Yes," he agreed. "We are."
Then she smiled—small, but with something new in it. Something like trust rebuilt.
"My name," she said softly, "is Vera. Vera Holloway."
Lucien's breath caught.
She'd been holding that back. Waiting. Testing whether he'd earn it.
"Vera," he repeated, tasting the syllables. The intimacy of finally having her name felt monumental.
"Yes." Her fingers traced the line of his jaw. "Now you know who you're choosing."
Lucien cupped her face with both hands, thumbs brushing her cheekbones.
"Vera Holloway," he said, voice rough with emotion. "I choose you. Every time. No more distance."
She rose slightly on her toes, bringing their faces even closer.
"Good," she whispered. "Because I choose you too."
The space between them evaporated.
Not a kiss—not yet.
Just breath shared. Foreheads pressed together. Hearts beating in tandem.
Outside, the city continued its indifferent rhythm.
Inside, something fundamental shifted.
Distance hadn't kept her safe.
But proximity—chosen, deliberate, mutual, named—might.
And for the first time in eight days, Lucien let himself believe that was enough.
Outside, the city continued its indifferent rhythm.
Inside, something fundamental shifted.
Distance hadn't kept her safe.
But proximity—chosen, deliberate, mutual—might.
And for the first time in eight days, Lucien let himself believe that was enough.
Unknown
The figure watched the feed with quiet satisfaction.
Two silhouettes in the darkened shop. Close. Too close.
"He went back," they murmured.
Of course he did.
Distance was never the answer.
It was just another form of attachment.
They adjusted the camera angle, capturing the moment Lucien's hand touched her face.
Perfect.
"Almost ready," they said to the empty room.
The pieces were moving exactly as planned.
Soon, Lucien Blackwell would learn what it meant to care about something he couldn't control.
And by then, it would be far too late to let go.