The room was still, lit only by the soft flicker of candlelight. Outside, the wind sang low against the house, as if mourning something it could not touch.
Seraphine lay curled in Lucien's arms, her body relaxed against him, eyes closed, lips slightly parted in a contented sleep. Her head rested on his chest like she belonged there.
She didn't speak.
She didn't need to.
She believed him.
Lucien stared at the ceiling. His hand stroked her hair slowly, gently, like a lover, like someone who was smitten. He pressed soft kisses to her forehead. Her cheek. The top of her head. Each one purposeful.
Each one a lie.
He hated how natural it felt.
She stirred slightly and hummed something in her sleep, one arm looping around his torso. He kissed her again, soothing her before she even fully woke.
"I'm here," he whispered. "I'm not going anywhere."
But his mind spun.
What do I do now?How do I leave a house no one sees? How do I survive a ghost in love?How many others had heard those same whispers from her lips—how many had been held like this before they died?
He tightened his hold around her, just slightly. He could feel the shape of her waist, the silk of her nightgown. She smelled like lilacs and the storm that was always threatening to break.
She sighed in her sleep, smiling. She trusted him. She believed every word. That he wouldn't leave. That he loved her.
She didn't know.
He'd burn the entire house down if it meant he could leave.
He glanced at the faint shape of his notebook across the room—torn pages discarded, but his mind already rewriting the plan. This wasn't just about wealth anymore. This was survival. This had escaped.
But until then, he had to keep playing the role.
So, he kissed her again, even softer this time. Brushed a loose strand of hair behind her ear.
"I love you, Seraph," he murmured—not because he meant it, but because he had to.
She smiled in her sleep.
And the weight of her trust made it that much worse.