The moonlight spilled across the marble floor as Caliste stormed through the Winslow estate, her clutch clenched tight in one hand and frustration brewing in her chest like a storm.
Dinner had ended—but her father's public toast, laced with that not-so-subtle joke about a grandchild, still echoed in her ears. She wasn't sure if Lucian heard it, but it didn't matter. Gregory Winslow had crossed a line.
She found him alone in his study, seated in the oversized leather chair behind his desk, a glass of aged whiskey in hand. The fire crackled quietly behind him. He looked up when she entered.
"Didn't expect you back here so soon," he said casually, motioning toward the empty armchair. "Everything alright?"
She didn't sit.
"You really thought that toast was funny?" she asked, arms folded.
His brows lifted slightly, amused. "Lighten up, Caliste. It was just a nudge. Families talk about heirs—it's nothing new."
Her jaw clenched. "I'm your daughter, not a royal broodmare."
Gregory sighed, setting down his glass. "Don't be so sensitive. It's been three years. You and Lucian barely act like a married couple. Your mother and I agreed with the Velmores that the alliance should grow roots. That means an heir in 6 months from now."
Her hands trembled slightly at her sides. "I didn't sign up for this to be reduced to a walking uterus."
His tone hardened. "You signed up for this because you understood the responsibility. You're a Winslow. We don't crumble under pressure."
"I'm not crumbling," she snapped. "I'm suffocating."
That made him pause. He looked at her—really looked at her—for the first time that evening. "Is it Lucian?"
"It's everything." Her voice broke. "The marriage. The expectations. You keep pushing this heir talk like it's a business transaction."
"Isn't it?" Gregory said coldly. "You married Lucian to secure two of the most powerful families in the country. Don't pretend it was about fairy tales. You made your choice."
Her eyes welled, but she refused to let a tear fall. "I didn't choose to fall for him."
That silenced him.
Gregory stood, setting aside the whiskey. "You... fell for Lucian?"
She blinked rapidly. "I shouldn't have said that."
"No, wait—Caliste—"
"Forget it," she whispered, stepping back. "Just do me a favor. The next time you want to talk about babies or heirs, don't do it with a glass of wine in your hand and the whole table watching."
Gregory's voice softened. "I didn't mean to hurt you."
She looked at him, eyes tired. "You didn't. But you reminded me what I am to this family. And it isn't a daughter."
She turned before he could respond and walked out of the room, heels clicking against the cold floor, her heart pounding beneath the surface of her poise.
Behind her, Gregory stood frozen—silent and maybe, for the first time in a long time, unsure of what to say.
The soft hum of city lights drifted through the towering windows of Lucian's penthouse. The skyline sparkled like a dream Caliste couldn't touch.
She stood in the darkened living room, barefoot, arms wrapped around herself. Her heels lay discarded near the door, the silence of the space pressing down on her chest.
Lucian entered quietly.
He'd loosened his tie, the usual sleek armor of his presence unraveling. His eyes paused on her silhouette.
"You're home early," he said, gently.
"I didn't feel like staying," she answered without turning.
He walked past her toward the minibar, pouring himself a drink. "Your father seemed pleased with the dinner."
Caliste's lips tightened. "I'm not."
Lucian glanced at her over the rim of his glass. "What happened?"
She turned finally, the soft lamplight revealing the fatigue in her face. "Do you really care, Lucian?"
He lowered the glass. "If I didn't, I wouldn't ask."
A silence passed between them.
She stepped forward, voice trembling but steady. "They keep pushing this heir talk like it's all I was born to do. Like this marriage is the only thing that defines me."
"It was the deal, wasn't it?" he said, voice low.
"But you hate it too," she said quickly. "You act like you can't stand to be near me most days. Why keep up the act at all?"
Lucian didn't speak for a moment. Then he walked to the window, staring out at the city.
"I don't hate you, Caliste," he said quietly. "I hate what they've turned us into. You and me. We didn't even get a chance to figure out who we are—before the expectations started crushing everything."
Her breath caught.
For the first time, he wasn't cruel. Just honest.
She stepped beside him.
"You could've said that sooner."
He turned to her, his eyes tired. "And what? Given you false hope? We were never supposed to be anything more than a headline. A power move."
"Then why does it hurt so much?" she whispered.
Lucian's gaze searched hers, like he was trying to solve a puzzle he didn't know he'd been given.
"I don't know," he admitted.
Another silence.
This one softer.
"I can't keep living like this," she whispered. "Pretending like we don't feel anything. That we don't get jealous. That we don't hurt."
Lucian looked at her. "Are you saying you feel something?"
Her lips parted. "Are you saying you don't?"
He didn't answer. Not with words. But his silence spoke volumes.
She stepped back.
"I need air," she murmured, grabbing her coat.
Lucian moved slightly, like he might follow, then stopped himself.
Because neither of them were ready yet.
But something had shifted. The wall between them had a crack.
Not enough to fall—but maybe enough to let light in.
Lucian stood motionless by the window long after Caliste left.
The faint sound of the elevator doors closing echoed like a door slamming shut between them, and yet… it didn't feel final. If anything, it felt like the beginning of something he didn't know how to name.
His drink sat untouched on the side table, the ice melted into a watered-down mess. He didn't care. He couldn't focus.
Instead, he replayed her words over and over.
"Why does it hurt so much?""I need air.""Are you saying you don't feel anything?"
Lucian exhaled slowly and rubbed a hand down his face.
He'd spent years avoiding this—this exact moment. The moment when the lines they drew started to blur. When her perfume lingered longer than it should. When her absence hit harder than expected.
And now, standing in his own penthouse—where everything was curated and spotless and under his control—Lucian Velmore felt completely and utterly lost.
He walked to the kitchen, poured himself another drink, and sat on the barstool.
His phone buzzed.
A message from someone he used to care about, or at least pretend to. A model. Another beautiful face in a sea of distractions."Still in the city? Drinks tonight?"
He stared at the message… and deleted it without replying.
For once, it didn't give him the rush it used to. The thrill of detachment, of always having an out, of not being tied to anything real.
Because something real had just walked out of this penthouse.
Barefoot. Heart hurting. Eyes too tired for someone her age.
And he hated that he let her go.
He remembered the way her voice trembled when she spoke about her family's expectations. How her father had joked—publicly—about grandchildren like it was a business arrangement. And she stood there, pretending to smile, while breaking underneath.
He'd known that feeling too well. Wearing suits that didn't fit right when he was younger. Shaking hands with people who only saw him as a future Velmore, not as a boy who liked fixing bikes more than balancing ledgers.
But Caliste… she wasn't supposed to get under his skin.
She was sunshine and sass, too loud in the mornings and always humming in the kitchen. She liked rain more than sun and always mixed up his imported wines with cheap ones. She wasn't made for his world, and yet, somehow—she was the only part of it that felt real.
And now he was alone.
Again.
Because he couldn't say the words.
Because he still believed if he admitted he wanted her—it would make it true. And that scared the hell out of him.
Lucian stood abruptly, knocking back the drink.
Then he picked up her forgotten scarf draped over the couch. It smelled like her—peach blossoms and something soft.
He held it in his hand for a long time.
Then sat down again.
Not in control.
Not calculating.
Just… a man who may have just pushed away the only woman who ever saw him as more than his last name.