Chapter 6 The Uninvited Past

The dream was too real.

Rain. Screaming tires. Eli is calling her name.

Mila suddenly woke up and found she was covered in sweat. The sheets felt as though they were binding her and not letting her move. Her pulse raced loudly in her chest as the memories of her old days merged with the peaceful sound of the Paris room.

She blinked, orienting herself.

No headlights. No blood. Just silk sheets and the soft glow of a bedside lamp someone had turned on during the night.

Lucien?

She shook the thought off. He hadn't come in. He never would.

Jumping out of bed, she walked softly on the marble floor toward her closet, grabbing a robe to pull on. Outside, a few people and cars were making early movements, though nothing was too loud.

Her fingers grazed the windowpane.

What had she signed up for?

Her phone buzzed sharply on the nightstand.

Unknown Number.

She hesitated, then answered.

"Mila," a voice whispered, low and male. "You've made a mistake."

Her spine straightened. "Who is this?"

Blackwood is not the person he claims to be. It's not good to know about such matters after it's too late.

The line went dead.

Mila stood frozen.

Later that Morning

Lucien was already dressed when she found him on the terrace, sipping coffee and scanning international stock updates on his tablet.

"Good morning," he said without looking up.

"You gave someone my number," she said sharply.

That got his attention.

He set the tablet down, dark eyes meeting hers. "Explain."

She told him. The call. The voice. The message. Word for word.

Lucien's face turned to stone.

"No one has access to your number but my team. That narrows things down."

"So someone in your team is warning me against you?"

He placed his forearms on the table and looked at the psychologist. "Or someone wants to make you question your position. Stir the pot. Undermine our arrangement."

"But why? Who gains from destabilizing this...whatever this is?"

Lucien's voice was low. "Plenty of people would rather see me vulnerable. Marrying you, Mila, created a weakness in their eyes."

"And is it?" she asked. "Am I your weakness?"

His eyes darkened. "You're a variable. Unpredictable. But that doesn't make you weak."

It wasn't the answer she wanted. But maybe it was the truth.

Afternoon: Delacroix Estate

Lucien had insisted Mila accompany him to the Delacroix vineyard-a "casual lunch," though nothing with Lucien Blackwood was ever casual.

She dressed in muted cream linen and low heels, soft curls pinned back. It was the first time she had chosen her outfit since the wedding. Something about that felt defiant.

The estate was grand-rolling hills of grapes, ancient stone buildings, horses grazing in the distance. Old money. Old secrets.

Camille Delacroix greeted them with air kisses and too-sharp smiles. Blonde, refined, and as perfectly polished as a diamond blade.

"Lucien," she purred, "you brought a wife. How...delightfully unexpected."

Mila smiled. "I aim to surprise."

Camille's eyes narrowed slightly, then softened into something more dangerous. "And what do you do, Mrs. Blackwood?"

"I survive," Mila said smoothly. "In a world that doesn't make it easy."

Lucien coughed into his hand to hide a laugh.

Over lunch, Camille's questions became more invasive.

How long had they known each other?

When had they fallen in love?

Why such a private ceremony?

Mila deflected with charm, sipping her wine, while Lucien watched in amused silence-until Camille mentioned something that changed the air.

"Do you remember Andrei Vassiliev, Lucien?"

His expression flickered. Barely.

"I remember many people," he replied.

"He was here last month. Quite curious about you. About your new...alliances."

Mila stiffened. "Who is he?"

Camille's smile was catlike. "An old friend of Lucien's father. A man with a particular interest in the past."

Lucien's jaw clenched.

And Mila knew, right then, that this trip to Paris wasn't about business. It was about shadows Lucien couldn't outrun.

That Night

The hotel room felt colder.

Mila paced the suite while Lucien took a call on the balcony, speaking in hushed, firm tones. She caught fragments: "No leaks. Shut it down. I want names."

He entered the room again, and his face gave away no emotions.

"I think you're not being honest," she said by accident.

He didn't deny it. "You're safer not knowing."

She wasn't having that excuse, she told me. "I am already involved in it." Lucien, you made me a part of your world. Consider revealing the potential consequences before anything else.

He kept gazing at her quietly for a long period.

Then: "My father was murdered."

The words hit like a slap.

Mila blinked. "What?"

"Twenty years ago. Staged to look like a robbery gone wrong. But it wasn't. He had enemies. Business partners. People who wanted him erased. I've spent half my life dismantling what he built, piece by piece, so they couldn't control me."

"Why didn't I know this?"

"Because money erases stories. And because I pay very well to keep it that way."

Mila felt like the ground beneath her shifted. "And what about Andrei Vassiliev?"

One of the people my father looked up to and relied on the most was Monsieur Dupont. Until he betrayed us."

She shook her head slowly. "So marrying me wasn't just about protecting your image. It was about creating a shield. A distraction. Or... bait."

Lucien didn't answer.

But he didn't need to.

Midnight

Sleep was impossible.

Mila went outside onto the balcony a second time, which no longer frightened her.

Lucien joined her silently, his eyes tracing the Paris skyline.

"You never asked me," Mila said softly.

"Asked what?"

"Why did I say yes."

He didn't look at her. "Because of Eli."

"That's part of it," she admitted. "But also... because I needed to feel like I had power. Even if it was just a lie."

Lucien glanced at her. "It doesn't have to be."

"What doesn't?"

He stepped closer. "This. Us."

Mila gasped as she was overcome with shock.

"You can't create mixed feelings," she quietly said. "Not after what you've done."

"I'm not blurring them," he said. "I'm crossing them."

In the next second, he surprised her with a kiss.

Not soft. Not sweet.

But fierce. Honest.

A kiss that tasted of war and apology, of fire and something too fragile to name.

When he pulled back, his voice was barely a breath.

"Now you know what you're risking."

And for the first time, Mila wasn't sure whether she wanted to run-or fall.