Chapter 6 5

Lucas

I realized she was married halfway down the highway.

The thought hit me hard enough that my jaw tightened and my grip on the steering wheel followed. Traffic moved at its usual pace, but the lights blurred past my vision as if I were driving faster than I actually was. I kept replaying the moment in the parking lot, the way her posture had gone rigid, the way her voice had rushed the words out as though she needed to say them before she lost her nerve.

She had said she was married.

There had been no explanation, no apology, and no ring in sight. I exhaled slowly and tried to make sense of it. If she was married, then she had still slept with me and if she had a husband waiting for her that night, that was bad. Neither option sat well with me.

I had not seen a ring on her finger, but I knew better than to trust something so obvious. People who cheated did not tend to advertise it. The thought left a bitter taste in my mouth. I had never liked being involved in deception, and the possibility that I had walked straight into one unsettled me more than I wanted to admit. It stirred memories I had already buried and had no intention of revisiting.

By the time I pulled into my father's driveway, my irritation had settled into something heavier and more reflective. That house always did that to me. The moment I arrived, it seemed to strip away whatever sense of ease I carried with me.

Nothing had changed. The hedges were still trimmed with obsessive precision, the windows still glowed with a warmth that never quite reached the inside, and the air smelled faintly of polish and money. The house was immaculate, expensive, and completely devoid of warmth.

Dinner there was a weekly obligation. One night a week, no excuses. Even after Brandon's collapse and everything that followed, my father had insisted on keeping the tradition. He claimed it maintained structure. I suspected it was simply another way for him to remind me who still held the reins.

I shut off the engine and stepped out of the car, already bracing myself.

Astrid greeted me before I reached the door, as she always did.

"Lucas," she said smoothly, her smile perfectly composed.

Astrid Reed, my stepmother, looked exactly as she always had. She was elegant, youthful and energetic. She had been part of my father's life long before my mother's hospital visits had become routine, long before the pills, and long before silence had replaced shouting. Her hair was neatly styled, pearls rested at her ears, and her perfume clung lightly to her like a signature.

"You look well," she added, her eyes sweeping over me. "Tired, but well."

"We don't have to do this," I said, stopping short in front of her. "You know how I feel about you. I thought you were still in Paris."

Her expression did not flicker. It never did. "I came back early," she replied gently, as though we had shared anything resembling gentleness. "It's good to see you, Lucas."

I walked past her without responding.

Inside, the house was quiet in a way that felt too deliberate. There was no laughter, no clutter, no sign of a life actually lived.

My father stood at the base of the stairs, his sleeves rolled up, his posture as commanding as ever. He had always had a way of filling a room without raising his voice.

"You're late," he said.

"It was a really long day, Father." I replied.

"There's dinner waiting for you."

"I'm not hungry."

He studied me for a moment, his gaze sharp and assessing me. "You should eat, boy."

"I'm going to bed."

There was a pause before he nodded. He did not argue. He never needed to. His disappointment had always been more effective than anger.

I took the stairs two at a time, my body remembering the layout of the house even when I wished it would forget. This room had been mine once, before it became a guest room, before the walls were repainted, before my mother's things disappeared quietly, one by one.

I closed the door behind me and finally allowed myself to breathe.

This room had once been my refuge. It was where I hid when my parents' arguments turned quiet and vicious, where I learned how to listen without being heard and how to observe without being noticed. Control had been my survival skill, and it had served me well later in life.

Brandon on the other hand had never learned it.

My stepbrother had always been reckless and entitled, charming in the careless way men like him often were. When my father handed him the company, everyone applauded the decision. No one had noticed the cracks forming beneath the surface.

I had noticed.

The drugs had come first, then the erratic decisions, and then the fraud case. It had started small, almost forgivable, until it was no longer either. When everything finally collapsed, my father had looked at me with expectation rather than remorse.

So I had stepped in. I had cleaned up the mess, taken the responsibility, and absorbed the consequences. I had become the man people trusted instead of underestimated.

I sat on the edge of the bed and let out a quiet laugh, rubbing a hand over my face.

And now I had slept with my married personal assistant.

Perfect.

Her face appeared in my mind without permission. The way she had stood The word married had fallen from her lips like a shield, but it hadn't stopped what I felt.

I hadn't pushed her, and that bothered me. I could have, easily. I could have pressed, tested the claim, reminded her what had happened that night and why she did that to me. If she told me she was married. I would have backed off.

Yet the truth didn't matter because even knowing she was married, even knowing I should step back, I wanted her. I wanted another night with her.

I leaned back on the bed, staring at the ceiling. Complicated, off-limits women had always been my weakness. And she, Lena Hart was impossible to ignore. She was stunning in a way that made my control crack. I told myself I should walk away. I should keep it professional but the thought was a lie I didn't fully believe.

I wanted her.

I wanted her badly.

And I wanted her again.

But she was married. And that meant rules had to exist, lines had to be drawn. At work, I would be careful. I would stay composed. I would keep my distance, no matter how much I burned to feel her again.

Tomorrow, I could be the CEO, the man everyone expected me to be. I would control myself. I had to.

But tonight, I let myself admit the truth.

This wasn't over.

Not even close.