The tea was lukewarm by the time she took her first sip.
Elora sat cross-legged on the couch by the window, still in her robe, the early sun streaking through the glass panes and dancing on her skin. Her fingers curled tightly around the ceramic cup, but her mind wasn't on the tea—or even on the warmth it gave.
Lucian's words echoed in her head like a drumbeat she couldn't silence.
"You don't have to act with me."
Why had he said that? Why now?
She had rules. Boundaries. A purpose. This marriage was a temporary arrangement. She had drawn her lines clearly in the sand.
And yet, here she was—breaking all of them in her heart.
Elora dropped her gaze to the cup. The lavender steam was gone now, but her emotions still simmered.
She set the tea down and rose from the couch, finally changing into her casual lounge wear. A soft sweater and thick leggings—comfortable and enough to help her push aside the memory of Lucian's voice. At least for now.
She headed toward the study.
Reading always helped anchor her thoughts. But as she pulled her journal out of the drawer and began to scribble the day's to-do list, her pen paused halfway through a sentence.
She remembered the way his eyes softened when he looked at her.
Not with pity. Not with expectation. But with something else… something far too dangerous to name.
A knock came at the door.
She startled, dropping the pen, and hurried to open it.
Lucian.
Wearing a simple black sweater and jeans this time. Effortless. Regal. And maddeningly unreadable.
"I figured you might want to go over the estate plans today," he said, lifting a brown folder.
"Estate plans?" she asked, grateful for the shift in topic.
He nodded. "The board wants a revised presentation before the gala next week."
She stepped aside, letting him in. "Right. Of course. Let's go over them now."
They walked to the lounge area and spread the documents on the coffee table. But even as they talked business, her mind wasn't cooperating.
Every time his hand brushed near hers, every time he leaned over to point at a graph, her heart jumped.
She tried to focus.
She really did.
But then it happened.
Lucian looked up from the page and said, "You always furrow your brow when you're pretending to concentrate."
She blinked.
"I—what?"
He smiled, slow and patient. "You used to do it at the company meetings too. It's your tell."
"I don't have a tell," she said, a bit too quickly.
He leaned back, arms folded. "You do. And I see it."
Her cheeks flushed again, and she quickly looked back down at the papers. "Let's just get through this."
But Lucian wasn't looking at the papers anymore. He was watching her. Closely. Like he wanted to say something but was holding back.
"Elora," he said softly.
She looked up.
"There's a limit to how long we can keep pretending."
The air between them shifted.
She didn't respond. Couldn't. The tension was too raw, too exposed.
He stood. "I'll give you some space."
And just like that, he was gone again.
Elora stared at the empty spot where he'd been.
The contract had rules. But feelings? Feelings never asked for permission.
********
The door clicked shut behind him, and Elora sank into the nearest chair as if the silence weighed more than the air itself.
Her fingers rested on the edge of the folder, but her gaze was distant. She wasn't looking at the estate plans anymore—she was looking inward, where the storm had started to swell.
The way Lucian watched her.
The way his voice lowered when he said her name.
She thought she could handle this. That the contract was enough of a wall. But each shared glance, each unspoken word between them, chipped away at the foundation she'd built.
"Get a grip, Elora," she muttered, pinching the bridge of her nose.
She hadn't even realized how long she sat there, lost in her thoughts, until the scent of warm pastries drifted through the hallway.
He'd left the room. But not the house.
A soft knock pulled her out of the fog.
This time, he didn't wait for permission.
Lucian pushed the door open gently, his hand balancing a tray—two cups of steaming tea, a new plate of flaky croissants, and a cloth napkin folded too neatly to be accidental.
"I figured you didn't eat much," he said, walking in.
She stood halfway, startled. "Lucian—"
"I didn't come to talk." He placed the tray on the small round table by the window. "I just didn't want your tea to go cold again."
There was something different in his tone. Not mocking. Not playful. Just… careful.
Like he was tiptoeing through a space he didn't want to ruin.
Elora sat again, this time across from the tray.
"You didn't have to," she said, her voice lower now.
"I know."
For a moment, all that passed between them was the clink of porcelain as she picked up the cup. The aroma of chamomile filled her lungs, forcing her to breathe slowly.
Lucian stood by the window, hands in his pockets, gaze turned outward.
"You used to look at the sky like that," she said before realizing the words had slipped out.
He turned, brow raised.
"You remember that?"
She nodded. "You always had this faraway look. Like you were searching for something."
Lucian let out a short breath, more like a chuckle. "Maybe I still am."
Their eyes met again, and this time neither looked away.
Then, softly, "Why did you carry me to bed last night?"
He blinked, caught off guard. "You were asleep."
"I woke up the moment you picked me up."
Silence.
"I didn't mean to cross a line," he said finally. "I just… didn't want you to wake up on that couch with a sore neck."
She stared at her tea. "You looked at me like you meant something."
Lucian stepped forward, now only a few inches away.
"Elora, what if I did?"
Her heart stuttered.
He was too close.
Too real.
"I can't do this," she said, barely a whisper. "We have a contract. This wasn't supposed to get complicated."
Lucian's voice was steady, but low. "Then why does it feel like it already is?"
She looked up, eyes wide.
Their world was shifting, slowly—dangerously.
And for the first time, Elora wasn't sure if she was ready to stop it.