Lucien just hums, a noncommittal sound that tells me absolutely nothing about what he’s thinking. He picks up his phone from the counter, scrolling through his contacts before tapping one.
“Antoine,” he says smoothly into the phone, his voice shifting into that polished, commanding tone he uses when he’s being The Heir. “My father will be joining us for dinner tonight. I need the full service—wine pairings, the Limoges china, crystal, the works.” He pauses, listening. “Yes, for three. No, the regular dining room, not the formal. And I want the ‘82 Bordeaux from the cellar.”
I watch him with a mixture of fascination and disgust. He’s ordering some fancy-ass dinner befitting the head of the Devereux family like this is a fucking state dinner instead of what it actually is—a confrontation that’s been brewing for weeks.
“Seven-thirty,” Lucien confirms before hanging up. He turns to me, eyes scanning my outfit—jeans and a simple sweater, perfectly fine for class but apparently not for dinner with Satan himself.
“You should change,” he says, his gaze lingering just a second too long on the way my jeans hug my hips.
“Into what? A suit of armor?” I snort, pushing away from the counter. “I’m not dressing up for your father.”
“Our father,” he corrects automatically, then winces. “Sorry. Force of habit.”
“He’s not my father,” I remind him, the words still bitter on my tongue. “Remember? No shared DNA.”
I stare at myself in the mirror, a slow smile spreading across my face. The jersey dress hugs every curve of my body, the hem hitting mid-thigh in a way that’s just barely decent. Lucien’s name and number stretch across my back, a not-so-subtle declaration of ownership that’s going to make Vincent’s blood pressure skyrocket.
The sound of someone arriving happens right at seven-thirty. I take one last look in the mirror, fluff my hair, and smear on another coat of red lipstick. Time to put on a fucking show.
I make my way down the stairs, deliberately taking my time. I can hear the low murmur of men’s voices from the foyer—Lucien’s controlled baritone and Vincent’s authoritative tenor. When I reach the bottom step, both men turn to look at me, and the expressions on their faces are worth every second of discomfort this dress might cause me later.
Vincent’s face darkens, his mouth tightening into a thin line of disapproval. But it’s Lucien’s reaction that sends a thrill through me. His eyes darken to forest green, pupils expanding as his gaze rakes over me from head to toe. The muscle in his jaw twitches—that telltale sign that he’s fighting for control.
“Miss Car—Seraphina,” Vincent says, his voice brittle with forced politeness. “How...interesting to see you’ve made yourself at home here.”
“Mr. Devereux,” I reply, my tone sugary sweet as I descend the final steps. “Lucien’s been very accommodating.”
I walk right up to Lucien and slide my arm through his, pressing my body against his side. His muscles tense beneath my touch, but he doesn’t pull away.
“Shall we?” I ask, batting my eyelashes at Vincent.
Lucien’s hand slides to the small of my back, fingers splaying possessively as he guides me toward the dining room. “Father, after you.”
The dining room is a masterpiece of subtle wealth—dark wood, crystal glasses that catch the light from the chandelier, gleaming silver. Three place settings are arranged around one end of the long table, with Lucien at the head and Vincent and me on either side.
“Wine, Miss Carvelli?” a server asks, appearing at my elbow with a bottle of something that probably costs more than my entire wardrobe.
“Please,” I say, holding out my glass. I’ve never been much of a drinker, but tonight I’ll make an exception.
Vincent’s eyes keep darting to my dress, his distaste evident in the tight lines around his mouth. “I see you’ve embraced your Chosen.”
I take a slow sip of wine, savoring the moment. “Yes, I’ve fully embraced being Lucien’s Chosen. It’s been quite the...adjustment.”
Vincent’s gaze flicks between us as the server brings out the first course—some fancy-looking salad with ingredients I can’t even identify.
“And how is this arrangement working for you both?” Vincent asks, his voice carefully measured as he unfolds his napkin across his lap.
“Seraphina has been quite receptive to her position,” Lucien says smoothly, taking his seat at the head of the table. His eyes linger on my dress, dark and hungry.
I nearly choke on my wine, fighting back a laugh. If he only knew how many times I’ve fantasized about stabbing him with his own expensive silverware.
I snort into my wine glass, unable to contain myself. “Don’t you mean Devereux? Technically, that should be my name too, right...daddy?”
The room goes completely silent. Vincent freezes mid-bite, his fork suspended halfway to his mouth. His face drains of all color, then flushes deep red in rapid succession.
“What did you just say?” he asks, his voice barely above a whisper.
I take a slow sip of wine, relishing the moment. “Oh, my mother didn’t tell you that she finally told me? How very interesting.”
