Chapter 5 The Devil's Penthouse

I didn't sleep.

Not really. Not when every room here whispered like it knew I didn't belong.

The sheets were too smooth. The lights are too quiet. The silence was too complete. It wasn't comfort - it was containment.

At 2 a.m., I gave up and wandered barefoot into the hallway, the city glittering beyond glass walls like a warning.

Lucian's penthouse wasn't a home.

It was a fortress. Every corner is designed to control the narrative. Sleek furniture. No clutter. No softness. No signs of life.

Except the locked door at the end of the hall.

His office.

He'd said not to go in there.

He hadn't said I wouldn't want to.

---

By morning, the headlines had shifted again.

PR Strategist Aria Vale Still Living in Thorne's Penthouse - Sources Say "It's Personal Now."

I threw my phone facedown and dialed the only number that wouldn't feel like a landmine.

"Please tell me you're not calling from inside the cult compound," Noelle answered, voice raspy with sleep and sarcasm.

"I'm calling from the belly of the beast."

A pause. Then the rustle of sheets. "Wait, are you still at his place? I thought you said it was temporary."

"It was."

"Aria-"

"I know," I groaned, flopping onto the cold velvet couch. "You don't have to say it."

"I do," she snapped. "Because if I don't, who else is going to remind you you're not some sexy cautionary tale on a true crime podcast?"

I laughed, but it was tight. Tired.

Noelle always knew when to joke and when to push. She was the only person who didn't shrink from me when I was furious or raw or halfway falling apart. She'd been there when my dad left. When my mother got sick. When my brother dropped out of school for the second time.

She saw the mess and stayed anyway.

"He's not what you think," I said quietly.

There was a beat of silence. Then: "Babe. He's exactly what I think. He's cold. Rich. Hot in a way that should be illegal. And you're already halfway to tattooing his name on your soul."

I pressed a hand to my forehead. "It's not like that."

"Then come home."

"I can't."

"Why not?"

I didn't answer. Because I couldn't explain it - not yet. Not the threats. Not the way he looked at me like I was both a puzzle and a weapon.

Not the part of me that wanted him to keep looking.

---

Later that morning, Lucian emerged from his office dressed like sin - all black, tailored sharp enough to wound. His cufflinks probably cost more than my rent.

He didn't look at me. Just nodded toward the kitchen.

"Eat something."

"Are you always this charming in the morning?" I muttered.

"I'm not trying to charm you."

"Trust me, I noticed."

He poured coffee like it was a business transaction. No small talk. No eye contact.

I studied him in silence. His sleeves were rolled to his forearms. A scar ran along one wrist - pale, thin, like a memory he'd buried deep.

"Why don't you have anything personal in this place?" I asked suddenly.

He looked up. Stared.

"No photos. No books. No art. Just... nothing. Like you're trying to erase yourself."

Lucian didn't answer right away.

When he finally spoke, his voice was soft. Too soft.

"This isn't a home. It's a shield."

I opened my mouth. I closed it.

Because beneath all the marble and money and control, there it was - a fracture. A truth. The first one he hadn't buried under a smirk or a threat.

And for a second, just one - I didn't hate him.

---

That night, I stood outside his office door, hand hovering above the knob.

He told me not to go in.

But I wanted to see the man when he wasn't watching. I wanted to know what he hid behind that perfect control.

I didn't open it.

Not yet.

But one day, I would.

And maybe when I did, everything would break.

Or maybe...

I would.