I step closer to her and tuck a piece of her hair behind her ear, desperate for more, “Dinner,” I say quietly. “Not tonight. You’re exhausted. Tomorrow. Here. No staff. No noise. Just us.”
Lucy’s expression shifts like she expects a trap.
“It’s time we talk, Lucy,” I say. “It’s… me asking for a chance to tell you the whole truth. You can leave after if you want.”
Her eyes narrow. “I can leave now.”
“Yes,” I say, voice rough. “You can.”
That stops her.
Because I mean it.
For the first time, I mean it without a clause hidden behind my teeth.
Lucy doesn’t answer.
She just nods once, like she’s agreeing to hear me out, not agreeing to stay.
It’s enough.
For now.
The next night, I cook. Not because I think it will win her back. Not because I’m trying to prove domestic devotion. Because I need to do something that isn’t power, isn’t money, isn’t strategy. Something Lucy would do.
She comes in wearing a wrap dress that clings to her every curve, her hair loose in waves. She looks stunning, and that brings both relief and fear.
She sits at the island and watches me with guarded eyes.
I plate the food and set it down in front of her.
She stares at it.
“You did this?” she asks, like she doesn’t trust the evidence.
“Yes.”
She takes a bite slowly.
Doesn’t praise it. Doesn’t smile.
But she eats.
I sit across from her, hands flat on the counter, and wait until she’s ready.
It takes fifteen minutes of quiet before she finally speaks.
“The folder,” she says.
My stomach knots.
Lucy’s eyes darken. “Tell me the truth.”
I nod once. “It wasn’t mine.”
The look on her face tells me she thinks I am lying. “It was in your office.”
“I know,” I say. “And it shouldn’t have been. Richard had it prepared when he decided it was time I get married and continue our legacy. But Lucy, I barely looked at it. I had it locked away.”
