Celeste's POV:
The crimson rose sat on my desk, a splash of dangerous beauty against the clinical white.
It pulsed with a quiet intensity, mirroring the frantic beat in my chest.
I'd cancelled my last client of the day, an unprecedented move, and now I stood at my office window, staring down at the ceaseless flow of taxis and pedestrians, my mind a turbulent sea.
I had been about to go to him. The locket, still empty, still waiting, felt like a silent command.
The rooftop at midnight had been a revelation, not a confrontation. He hadn't touched me, but his gaze, his words – they had branded me.
Then Damien's accusations at breakfast had come like a slap.
"I checked the clinic's visitor log."
His words, laced with suspicion and a pathetic attempt at control, had solidified something in me. The hollow ache of my marriage was no longer just a quiet grave; it was an active suffocator.
And suddenly, my desire for Lucien wasn't just a fantasy; it was a desperate need for air.
Now, the rose. His quiet, almost invisible response. A confirmation. He knew. He was always watching. And despite the tremor in my hands, a part of me thrilled at the thought.
I looked at my reflection in the dark glass of the window. My eyes were too bright, my lips parted.
I looked like a woman on the verge of something reckless. My carefully constructed life as
Dr. Celeste Morano, the poised, brilliant sex therapist, felt like a distant memory, a brittle shell waiting to crack.
---
The thought of Damien, his polite attempts at intimacy, his possessive inquiries, made my stomach churn.
I had given him everything I thought he wanted – stability, respectability, a beautiful wife. And he? He had given me an empty bed and a hollow existence.
Lucien, with his dangerous honesty and his refusal to apologize for his hunger, offered something terrifyingly real.
My phone buzzed. It was Nadia.
"You skipped out on our afternoon coffee," she said, her voice laced with amusement. "Figured you were off doing something scandalous."
"You wouldn't believe it if I told you," I replied, my voice a little breathless.
"Try me," she challenged. "Or just tell me you're finally choosing yourself."
I squeezed my eyes shut for a moment.
Choosing myself.
It felt like choosing chaos.
"It's… complicated."
"Isn't it always? But this isn't just about a man, is it, Celeste? It's about what he makes you feel. What he unlocks."
She was right. Lucien wasn't just a man; he was a catalyst.
He was the blade that cut through the silence I had built around myself.
"I have to go, Nads," I said, a sudden urgency seizing me. "Something came up."
"Go get 'em, tiger," she laughed, and then the line went dead.
---
I looked at the rose again, then at the locket. The choice was clear. The path was set.
But I realized, with a jolt, that while I was ready to choose him, I knew almost nothing about his world.
I had only seen curated glimpses – the gallery, the elegant penthouse. I knew he was a kingpin, a man of power, but the realities of that power, the violence, the danger… I had only fantasized about the edge.
My thoughts were interrupted by a sudden, distant wail of sirens. Not close, but growing. It was common in New York, the endless symphony of the city.
But tonight, it felt different. Sharper.
More insistent. A prickle of unease ran down my spine.
I grabbed my bag, my heart hammering against my ribs. I needed to see him. Needed to understand. Not just what he offered me, but what his world demanded.
---
As I walked out of the clinic, the sound of the sirens seemed to pulsate through the pavement. I scanned the street, an irrational fear blooming in my chest. Was it about Damien? Or something else? Something darker?
I shook my head. This was New York. Sirens were a given.
But as I hailed a cab, another image flashed through my mind: Lucien on the rooftop, his face grim, his grip on his phone tight. His words:
"He's making trouble."
A cold dread seeped into my bones. Trouble for Damien, or trouble for us?
The taxi pulled up, and I slid into the back seat, giving the driver Lucien's address. The familiar gold bracelet felt heavy on my wrist, a tether to the danger I was willingly, hungrily, rushing towards. The city lights blurred outside the window, a beautiful, terrifying spiral.
I knew this was the point of no return. And a part of me, the part that was finally awake, had never felt more alive.
But another, deeper part, the one that still remembered my childhood lessons in perfection and control, whispered a chilling warning:
You have no idea what you're walking into.
And for the first time, I didn't care. The desire to finally be known, to finally feel, outweighed every last shred of fear.