Chapter 3 Dinner and War

The next evening came cloaked in the hush of clouds that threatened rain, casting a gloomy silver wash over the towering windows of Blackwood Estate. Ivy stood at her vanity, staring at her reflection as if it might change the second she looked away.

Her lips were painted a deep wine red. A silk gown in midnight blue clung to her figure like a secret. Her fingers trembled slightly as she smoothed the side of her dress, not from fear-but from the suffocating anticipation that wrapped around her like smoke.

Lucien hadn't spoken to her since that hallway encounter.

You should lock your door tonight.

She had.

And yet she hadn't slept.

Something about him stirred the kind of tension she didn't know how to name-an ache between attraction and animosity, between dread and desire. Like touching fire just to prove it burns.

At precisely eight o'clock, she descended the staircase. The staff were nowhere to be seen. The silence was deliberate, curated, as if Lucien had commanded the entire house to vanish while he conducted business with his bride.

She stepped into the dining room and froze.

Lucien stood at the window, glass of amber whiskey in hand, back turned. His profile was framed by the storm-streaked sky behind him. For a moment, he didn't move.

"Do you enjoy keeping me waiting?" she asked, voice calm, though her pulse raced.

"I enjoy knowing whether you'll come," he said without turning.

"I live here now, remember? I'm part of your... legacy."

That made him turn. Slowly.

His gaze swept over her, cold and assessing. And yet, something else flickered there, like the flare of a match in the dark. A brief betrayal of admiration.

"You clean up well," he said, walking to the head of the table.

She sat across from him, lifting her chin. "Is that a compliment?"

He didn't answer.

Dinner was already plated-veal medallions in a wine reduction, blood-orange salad, and some risotto that steamed with earthy scent. Ivy picked at the food, more focused on Lucien than the chef's efforts.

They ate in tense silence for ten minutes.

It was her who cracked first.

"This isn't going to work."

Lucien didn't look up. "Is that so?"

"This-" she gestured between them "-this pretending. The polite silences. The dinners like we're strangers at a charity gala. If we're going to be married, we need to speak. Honestly."

Finally, he met her gaze. "Fine. Let's speak honestly."

He set his fork down.

"You think I wanted a wife?" he said, voice low but sharp. "You think I wanted to strap a public narrative onto my back to save your father's crumbling empire?"

Ivy swallowed, hard.

"I did it," he continued, "because the deal made sense. Because I needed your company's patents. And because I needed you-as a symbol. An asset."

"You mean as a hostage," she spat.

His lip curled. "You make it sound so dramatic."

"You're keeping me here like I'm some kind of-"

"You walked through the door yourself," he snapped, suddenly rising from the chair. "Don't you dare play the victim now."

Ivy stood too, slamming her napkin onto the table.

"I did it for my father," she hissed. "Because he looked at me with eyes full of failure and begged me to save what little pride he had left. You think I wanted this? I sold myself to the coldest man in Manhattan."

Lucien took a slow step toward her. Then another. Until they were just a breath apart.

"Cold," he echoed, voice like silk over steel. "You call me cold, but you haven't even scratched the surface of what I am, Ivy."

His breath brushed her cheek. Her chest rose and fell with the heat of fury, confusion-and a dangerous pull she didn't want to name.

She glared up at him. "Then show me."

His jaw tensed.

Their lips were inches apart.

And then-without warning-Lucien grabbed her wrist and yanked her closer.

The kiss that followed was not romantic.

It was war.

He kissed her like a man breaking a rule. Like he wanted to erase her defiance, consume her argument, set fire to the boundary between power and passion. His mouth was bruising, unforgiving. Hers fought back, demanding, matching him breath for breath.

When he finally pulled away, her lips were swollen, her breath ragged, her mind a blur of heat and alarm.

"That," Lucien said roughly, "is how this works."

Ivy stared at him. "You can't just shut me up by kissing me."

His eyes darkened. "It worked."

She slapped him.

The sound cracked like thunder through the dining room.

Lucien's face barely moved.

But his voice turned to ice. "You should be careful, Ivy. There's a line you don't want to cross."

"And what happens when I do?" she asked, heart pounding.

He stepped back.

Then, to her surprise, he smiled.

Not charming. Not cruel.

Amused.

"You might like what's on the other side."

He walked out, leaving her breathless, furious, and trembling.

She didn't know if she hated him or wanted him more.

Later that night, Ivy sat in the massive clawfoot tub, surrounded by candlelight and rose-scented steam. Her thoughts churned.

Every time she pushed him, he pushed back harder. Every truth she offered, he weaponized. But underneath all of that control was something else. A hunger. A fracture.

She just didn't know whether that fracture would lead to redemption-or ruin.

Her phone buzzed on the marble tray beside the tub.

Unknown Number: You don't know who he really is. Be careful.

Her heart stilled.

She typed back: Who is this?

No response.

She stared at the screen until it dimmed.

Then she looked up at the black mirror across the room-and realized, suddenly, it wasn't a mirror.

It was a two-way glass.

Someone could be watching.

She stepped out of the tub, wrapping herself in a robe, her pulse in her throat.

There was more to this house than silence and coldness.

There were secrets.

And she was beginning to think she was meant to discover them.

Even if it killed her.