Chapter 3 - The Penthouse Rules
The Maybach pulled into the private underground parking garage of the Moretti Tower in the heart of the financial district.
A private glass elevator whisked us up sixty floors, opening directly into a massive, two-story penthouse overlooking the glowing skyline of the city and the dark harbor beyond.
The interior was sleek, dark, and minimalist—polished concrete floors, floor-to-ceiling glass walls, soft warm lighting, and quiet security guards stationed at the exits.
Lucian walked over to the marble kitchen counter, unbuttoning his charcoal vest and setting his watch on the stone.
“Your lace dress is ruined, sweet,” Lucian noted, gesturing toward the bottom of my train, which had gathered dust and crushed rose leaves from the cathedral carpet. “My housekeeper, Martha, has placed clean clothes for you in the master suite. Go wash up. We talk business in twenty minutes.”
I stood near the entrance, holding my silk train in my hand. “Martha? Master suite? Lucian, I’m not staying here as your mistress or your charity project.”
Lucian paused, turning his head to look at me over his shoulder. A faint, amused smirk touched his lips.
“You aren't my mistress, Elena,” he said smoothly. “You are my partner. And as of forty minutes ago, every media outlet in the country believes you are my fiancée. If you step outside that door without my protection, Adrian’s legal team will have you served with three separate lawsuits before midnight, and his mother’s goons will raid your apartment for your hard drives.”
My hand tightened on the silk. He was right.
Adrian had deliberately set up his legal traps to trigger the moment the wedding dissolved. He knew I had copied his foundation’s books, and his entire strategy relied on making me look unstable, broke, and discredited so no prosecutor would take my evidence seriously.
“Fine,” I said flatly. “Twenty minutes.”
I walked down the long corridor into the master suite. The room was grand, dominated by a king-sized bed wrapped in dark grey silk, a fireplace roaring quietly in the corner, and a marble bathroom that looked like a spa.
Sitting on the bed was a folded set of black cashmere loungewear, along with a sleek silver smartphone.
I stripped off the heavy, suffocating wedding gown that Adrian had chosen for me—a dress that had felt like a golden cage—and stepped into the hot shower. I scrubbed my skin until it burned, washing away the smell of Saint Jude’s incense, the cheap perfume of Adrian’s mother, and the lingering shadow of a fake love.
When I stepped out, dressed in the soft cashmere clothes, I felt light. For the first time in six months, I felt like myself again.
I walked back out to the main living area.
Lucian was sitting at a glass desk, a tablet in his hand and a thick manila folder open before him. Standing beside him was his chief of security, Marco—a broad-shouldered man with a scar running across his left jaw.
“Sit,” Lucian said, gesturing to the leather chair across from him.
I sat down, crossing my arms over my chest. “Tell me your terms, Lucian.”
Lucian closed his tablet, leaning back. “Simple. You give me full read-only access to the encrypted ledgers you copied from the Vale Foundation. In return, my legal team wipes out your debt, restores your father’s name, and returns your accounting firm to your sole ownership.”
“And what do you get out of this?” I asked sharply. “Don't tell me you’re doing this out of the goodness of your heart, Lucian. Men like you don't save women without a price.”
May you like
Lucian’s dark eyes flashed with an intense, intoxicating heat.
“The Vales have been using their charity foundation to smuggle unlicensed pharmaceutical compounds through my docks without paying my toll,” Lucian said, his voice dropping into a lethal, quiet growl. “Adrian thinks because his mother married a state senator, he can operate in my city without my permission. I want his empire burned to the ground, Elena. And I want you to strike the match.”
