Lucien didn’t speak during the drive home.

Which, honestly, felt worse than yelling.

Rain streaked across the SUV windows while Manhattan lights blurred gold against wet streets outside. Ivy sat beside him this time instead of across from him, mostly because Lucien had guided her into the seat with one hand against her waist and the terrifying confidence of a man used to obedience.

Neither touched the untouched champagne waiting near the console.

Neither looked entirely calm.

The silence between them still carried heat from the ballroom.

From Hale.

From jealousy sharp enough to cut open the entire evening.

Ivy crossed one leg over the other slowly.

“You know,” she muttered, “dragging women out of events is generally considered alarming behavior.”

Lucien stared straight ahead.

“You danced with Vincent Hale.”

“You keep repeating that like I slow danced with Satan.”

“You chose him deliberately.”

“Maybe.”

Lucien finally looked toward her.

Gray eyes dark beneath city lights flashing through the windows.

“Why.”

The question came quieter now.

Not angry.

Something worse.

Personal.

Ivy looked away first.

Big mistake.

“Your face was interesting.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the truth.”

Lucien leaned back slowly against the leather seat.

Rain tapped steadily around them.

“You wanted a reaction.”

“I got one.”

“Yes.”

No denial.

Again.

Always that dangerous honesty lately.

The SUV turned sharply onto the private road leading toward the mansion gates.

Lucien’s fingers flexed once against his knee.

Tiny movement.

Still there.

“I don’t like him near you,” he said quietly.

The confession slipped out rougher than intended.

Ivy blinked slowly.

“Well. That’s emotionally alarming.”

Lucien didn’t answer.

Which answered enough.

The mansion appeared through rain and darkness moments later, glowing gold against the storm. Guards opened the front doors before the SUV fully stopped.

Lucien stepped out first.

Then turned immediately toward Ivy.

One hand extended toward her automatically.

Instinct.

Not performance.

Ivy stared at it for one dangerous second before placing her fingers into his.

Another terrible decision.

His hand closed firmly around hers.

Cold skin.

Steady pressure.

The contact lasted too long.

Neither pulled away first.

—

The mansion settled into silence quickly after midnight.

Matteo wisely vanished upstairs the second they returned.

Marta took one look at both of them in the foyer and immediately disappeared in the opposite direction.

Smart woman.

Ivy escaped toward the library mostly to avoid thinking about the ballroom.

Or Lucien’s hand on her back.

Or the way he looked ready to kill Hale publicly.

Unfortunately, Lucien followed her anyway.

Of course he did.

The library glowed soft gold beneath low lamps while rain moved quietly beyond the tall windows. Ivy kicked off her heels beside the couch with visible relief.

“Women invented these shoes to punish each other.”

Lucien loosened his tie slowly near the fireplace.

“You wore them voluntarily.”

“That’s victim blaming.”

One side of his mouth moved faintly.

Tiny.

Still there.

Ivy noticed immediately.

“You smile more now.”

The comment slipped out before she could stop it.

Lucien’s expression stilled slightly.

Interesting.

Very interesting.

He looked toward the fire instead of her.

“You notice too much.”

“You hide too little lately.”

That landed.

Lucien reached for the whiskey bottle near the shelves.

Paused.

Then didn’t pour.

Also interesting.

Ivy curled sideways against the couch cushions while watching rain slide down the windows.

The silence between them felt different tonight.

Softer.

More dangerous.

Like something had already shifted and neither knew how to walk backward anymore.

Then Lucien crossed slowly toward one of the bookshelves near the piano.

Opened a lower drawer.

And removed a tiny folded piece of paper.

Ivy frowned slightly.

“What’s that.”

Lucien stood very still for a moment.

Then walked toward her.

Every instinct inside Ivy sharpened instantly.

Not fear.

Something far worse.

Anticipation.

Lucien stopped beside the couch.

Close enough now that she caught rain and cedarwood still clinging faintly to his tuxedo.

He held the folded paper carefully between his fingers.

Like it mattered.

“I should’ve thrown this away years ago,” he said quietly.

Ivy looked down at it.

Small.

Worn.

Edges softened from age.

And suddenly—

her stomach tightened.

Lucien handed it to her slowly.

Ivy unfolded the paper carefully.

Then froze.

Hot chocolate wrapper.

Red lettering faded with time.

One corner torn slightly near the fold.

Memory hit instantly.

Snowstorm.

Convenience store.

A bleeding teenage boy standing beneath broken neon lights while ten-year-old Ivy shoved hot chocolate into his hands and called him a sad wolf.

Her breath caught hard.

No.

No way.

Ivy looked up slowly.

Lucien watched her face carefully.

“You kept this?”

The question came out barely above a whisper.

Lucien’s gaze stayed fixed on her.

“For twelve years.”

The room went completely silent.

Rain against glass.

Fire crackling softly nearby.

Nothing else.

Ivy stared down at the wrapper again.

Her fingers shook slightly now.

“You remembered me that whole time?”

“Yes.”

No hesitation.

No distance.

Only truth.

The answer hit like a physical thing.

Ivy laughed weakly under her breath.

Stunned.

“That’s… insane.”

Lucien crouched slowly beside the couch.

Close now.

Too close.

“You walked away afterward,” he said quietly. “Most people did.”

Ivy looked at him again.

The firelight moved softly across his face while exhaustion and vulnerability sat openly there for once.

No mafia king now.

No control.

Only Lucien.

“You were bleeding,” she whispered.

“You were ten.”

“You looked sad.”

Something shifted hard behind his eyes at that.

Ivy stared at the wrapper again.

Then softly:

“You really kept this in your house.”

Lucien looked down briefly.

“When my father broke things…” His voice lowered slightly. “That survived.”

The sentence cracked something open inside her chest.

She suddenly imagined teenage Lucien hiding a stupid hot chocolate wrapper away while the rest of his world burned around him.

The thought hurt.

Badly.

“You don’t even like hot chocolate,” she murmured weakly.

A faint breath of amusement escaped him.

“No.”

“Then why keep the wrapper?”

Lucien looked directly at her.

And answered with the kind of honesty that only happened after midnight.

“Because you were kind to me before you knew who I was.”

The room blurred instantly.

Ivy looked away fast.

Too late.

Lucien noticed the shine in her eyes immediately.

Of course he did.

“You’re crying.”

“No, I’m not.”

Her voice betrayed her horribly.

Lucien’s expression softened in that dangerous quiet way only reserved for her now.

Ivy laughed shakily under her breath while wiping quickly at her face.

“This is ridiculous.”

“You repaired my records.”

“That’s different.”

“How.”

“I didn’t carry around garbage emotionally attached to strangers for twelve years.”

“You weren’t strangers to me.”

The sentence landed softly.

Devastatingly.

Ivy stopped moving completely.

Lucien stayed crouched beside the couch watching her like this moment mattered more than any meeting, threat, or war waiting outside the mansion walls.

And maybe—

terrifyingly—

it did.

“You knew me before I knew you,” Ivy whispered.

Lucien’s gaze moved slowly across her face.

“I knew the girl who smiled at injured strangers during snowstorms.”

The tears came harder after that.

Quiet.

Embarrassing.

Real.

Ivy covered part of her face with one hand immediately.

“Oh my God, stop saying emotionally devastating things.”

A tiny smile appeared near Lucien’s mouth then.

Unconscious.

Soft.

Real.

And instead of looking dangerous—

for the first time since she met him—

Lucien Moretti looked hopeless.