Chapter 5 The Rules We Break

Elena

A kiss shouldn't feel like a war.

But that's exactly what ours was: devastating, dangerous, and detonated by all the things we swore we wouldn't feel.

Lucas kissed me like he was trying to forget the world.

I kissed him like I was trying to remember myself.

And now I can't breathe without remembering the way his mouth tasted like steel and sorrow.

I wake the next morning in a bed that feels unfamiliar. Not because it's changed, but because I have. My lips still tingle. My heart still races. My brain is running a marathon trying to pretend it didn't happen.

But the worst part? I want it to happen again.

There's no note from Lucas. No summons. No sign.

Just Adrienne, who bursts in with two garment bags, her usual hurricane energy cloaked in silk and caffeine.

"Up," she barks. "We've got a day to build you into a media darling."

I blink. "What?"

"You're meeting Harper King."

My heart stutters. "The fashion mogul?"

"Also,o Lucas's most demanding investor. She's nosy, brilliant, and terrifying. And she's requested lunch with you."

"Why me?"

"Because she doesn't trust Lucas. But she adores women with fire in their blood."

"Then I'm doomed."

Adrienne smirks. "Don't flatter yourself. You're exactly the kind of chaos she likes."

The restaurant is all glass and garden, in a rooftop oasis of orchids and soft jazz. Harper King sits at a table alone, wearing crimson like it's a crown. Her silver hair is in a perfect bun, and her eyes cut through me the second I arrive.

"Elena Willow," she says, voice like smoke and old secrets. "You look too smart to be a placeholder."

"I'm not," I say evenly. "But thank you."

She gestures for me to sit.

The waiter brings tea. She waves him away without a glance.

"Let's be honest, dear. I don't believe in fake engagements. And Lucas Thorn doesn't believe in real ones. So why the performance?"

I pause. Smile. "Maybe we're both faking different things."

Her lips twitch in amusement. "Careful. I enjoy riddles more than I should."

She sips her tea.

"Lucas hasn't brought a woman to an event in years. He doesn't waste time on appearances unless they serve a purpose. What purpose do you serve?"

I meet her gaze. "I keep him off balance."

"Dangerous answer."

"It's a dangerous relationship."

Harper leans forward. "Does he love you?"

I hesitate. "No."

"Do you love him?"

My throat tightens. "Not yet."

She laughs a sound like shattered mirrors.

"Well," she says, leaning back, "you're either a very good liar, or a very bad one."

I force a smile. "Maybe I'm just honest."

"Worse," she says. "You're hopeful. That makes you volatile."

She finishes her tea, sets the cup down with deliberate grace.

"Lucas has demons, Elena. Demons that have teeth. If you're not careful, you'll bleed."

"I'm not afraid of blood."

She stands. "Then you might just survive."

By the time I return to the penthouse, Lucas is in the west library, shirt sleeves rolled up, reviewing documents.

He doesn't look up when I enter. "How was Harper?"

"Intense. Brilliant. Scary."

"She likes you."

I arch a brow. "She told you that?"

"She told me you weren't a complete idiot."

"High praise."

Lucas finally glances up. "Don't get comfortable."

"With Harper or with you?"

He doesn't answer. Instead, he sets the file down.

"I have a proposition."

I blink. "Another one?"

"This one benefits you."

I cross my arms. "I'm listening."

"There's a gala next weekend. The Global Arts Syndicate."

"Sounds pretentious."

"It is. But they're offering a fellowship for emerging artists. International showcase. Private mentorship. The works."

My heart stutters. "So?"

"I'm the keynote speaker. I can get you in."

I stare at him. "Why?"

"Because I don't like waste. And your talent deserves more than painting on balconies."

There's something almost gentle in his voice.

Almost.

"I don't want charity."

"It's not charity. It's leverage."

"Of course it is," I mutter.

His gaze sharpens. "Take it or leave it."

I take it.

The rest of the week is a whirlwind of press appearances, fake interviews, and painfully real moments.

Cassidy appears twice more. Each time more venomous than the last.

"I see you've mastered the art of the empty smile," she hisses at a wine tasting.

I smile wider. "And you've mastered the art of the desperate comeback."

Lucas watches us like we're two firestorms he enjoys fueling.

But I notice something new.

He's watching me differently.

As if he's waiting for me to break or rise.

He tests me, too.

Late-night dinners with power players where he pretends I'm fluent in finance. Charity auctions where he bids two million on a painting just because I said I liked it. And one morning, he cancels a press meeting to take me to a hidden rooftop greenhouse.

"I come here when I need to feel something real," he says.

I don't say it, but I already do.

Feel. Constantly. Sharply. Terribly.

The night of the Global Arts Syndicate arrives.

I wear silver silk, my hair in soft waves, and a pair of heels that feel like weapons.

Lucas wears a black tux like it was made for war.

We arrive arm in arm, cameras flashing, names being called.

Inside, the walls are covered in contemporary masterpieces. Abstracts. Portraits. Sculptures that pulse with raw emotion.

I can barely breathe.

"Your work belongs here," Lucas says.

I shake my head. "Not yet."

He turns me toward him. "Soon."

The keynote is boring. Lucas's speech isn't.

He speaks of art as rebellion. a As revolution. Of creation as the last true form of power.

And I believe him.

After, we mingle.

A woman in a deep green gown approaches us. "Your speech was phenomenal," she says to Lucas.

He nods. "Thank you, Elise."

She turns to me. "And you must be Elena. Lucas mentioned you paint with light."

I smile. "Only on good days."

She laughs. "I'd love to see your portfolio."

I blink. "Seriously?"

"Send it to my assistant. You might be perfect for our Paris residency."

I nearly choked. "Paris?"

"Three months. All expenses covered. You'd work under Sorel Jean."

My mind spins. "I thank you."

She squeezes my hand. "Lucas was right. You are a storm."

Back in the penthouse, I throw my heels across the room and collapse onto the couch.

Lucas watches me from the doorway.

"Paris," I whisper. "Lucas, Paris."

"I told you."

"Why are you doing this?" I ask, voice raw. "Why help me?"

He doesn't move. "Because if I can't believe in love, I want to believe in purpose."

"That's not the same."

"No," he says softly. "But it's all I have."

I walk toward him.

"Then what do I have?"

His hand brushes my jaw.

"You have me. For as long as this lasts."

"That's not enough," I whisper.

"I know."

And then he kisses me again.

Harder. Deeper. More desperate.

This time, I don't pull away.

This time, I let it burn.

We end up in his bedroom.

Silk sheets. Shadows. Heat.

His hands are on fire. His mouth is sinful.

And when it's over, we lie tangled together, breathless.

But peace doesn't last.

His phone buzzes.

He checks it.

Stillness.

"What is it?" I ask.

He doesn't answer. Just sits up.

"Lucas?"

He turns to me, eyes darker than I've ever seen.

"My father's back in New York."

My stomach twists.

"Is that bad?"

"It's catastrophic."

"Why?"

"Because he knows about you."

My pulse jumps. "What does that mean?"

"It means," Lucas says, voice like ice, "that everything's about to get much more dangerous."