2
SELENA
I wake up in the morning, and it's the same routine every day. Our house is quiet. A Georgian townhouse in Kensington, all high ceilings and original crown molding, filled with books and the subtle scent of sandalwood, his scent. The London gray filters through the tall windows, soft and forgiving, the way it always does. I've learned to love this light. It doesn't demand anything from you.
I'm in the kitchen making coffee for myself and tea for Lucien, the way he likes it, just a splash of milk, stirred slowly. My hand moves in circles, but my mind is already across the ocean.
I have to go back home. My home. Back in the USA. The word feels strange in my mouth now. Home. When I left four years ago, I never imagined I'd call somewhere else home. But moving to London was the best decision I ever made, leaving it all behind, packing up my suitcase, and finding him.
Home isn't a city anymore. Home is a man with dark eyes and a quiet laugh who drinks tea at precisely the same time every morning.
I carry his mug upstairs, the stairs creaking under my feet the way they always do. The door to his study is half open, and I pause there, just watching.
He's at his desk by the window, backlit by the gray sky, and even after two years of marriage, the sight of him still stops my heart.
Lucien Thorne. My husband.
He's tall, the kind of tall that makes you feel protected just standing next to him. Broad-shouldered in that way that fills out a suit but doesn't scream for attention. His skin is warm brown, the kind that glows in sunlight, and his features hold that beautiful ambiguity of mixed heritage, something that makes people stare and wonder. High cheekbones. A jaw that could cut glass. A mouth that rarely smiles, but when it does, it destroys you.
And his eyes. God, his eyes. Dark brown, almost black, with this intensity that makes you feel like you're the only person in the world when he looks at you. They're old eyes. Eyes that have seen loss, built empires, learned to trust no one. Eyes that somehow, impossibly, soften only for me.
He's not wearing his suit yet, just a crisp white shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows, revealing forearms that speak of someone who does more than just sit behind a desk. His hair is slightly disheveled, the way it gets when he's been running his hands through it while on calls. Reading glasses perched on his nose because he refuses to admit he needs them full time.
Right now, he's on a video call, his expression that particular blend of polite and terrifying he reserves for people who waste his time. His voice is low, controlled, that faint undertone of his upbringing, not quite upper class, not quite anything, the accent of someone who built himself from nothing.
"With respect, Gerald," he's saying, dry as a martini, "your timeline is ambitious. I admire ambition. I also admire reality. They're not currently dating."
I bite back a laugh. This is my husband. The man who can make grown executives squirm with a single arched eyebrow.
He glances up, sees me in the doorway, and his whole face changes. The intimidating CEO vanishes. In its place is something softer, warmer. Mine.
"Gerald, I have to go. My wife is here, and she's holding tea, which means she currently has more value to me than this entire conversation." Pause. "Yes, that was a joke. No, I'm not sorry. Send the revised proposal. Goodbye."
He ends the call and pulls off his glasses, those dark eyes fixed on me with an intensity that still makes my stomach flip.
"You're a terrible person," I say, walking toward him.
"I'm an excellent person. Gerald is simply learning what the rest of the world already knows." He takes the mug, his fingers brushing mine. "You made it perfect."
"I always make it perfect."
"That's why I married you."
I roll my eyes, but I'm smiling. He sets the mug down and reaches for me, pulling me onto his lap in one smooth motion. His arms wrap around my waist, and I sink into him, my head finding its usual spot against his shoulder.
For a moment, we just breathe together. His chest rises and falls under my cheek. His thumb traces lazy circles on my hip.
"What was Gerald's crime?" I ask.
"Existing. Also, he wants to acquire a company in three months that realistically requires six. I told him I'd consider it if he also considered developing a relationship with reality."
"Maybe he's an optimist."
"Optimism is a tax people without plans pay." He kisses my temple. "You, however, are exempt. Do you have a plan?"
I go still. He notices. He always notices.
"Selena."
"Just thinking about the trip."
His arms tighten. "You don't have to go."
"It's my sister's wedding."
"Your sister could get married here. London is lovely in spring."
I laugh softly. "Lucien."
"I'm serious. I'll fly everyone over. First class. Open bar. I'll even wear a suit."
"You always wear a suit."
"Then I'll wear a different suit. A special one. With a pocket square."
I lift my head to look at him. His face is serious, but there's something in his eyes, a flicker of something I can't name. Fear. Worry. Loss.
"Hey." I cup his jaw. "I'll be fine. You're flying out in a few days. It's just a wedding."
"A two-week wedding," he corrects dryly. "Your sister couldn't find a nice courthouse like normal people?"
"She's marrying an Indian man. Two weeks is conservative. His family wanted a month."
Lucien's eyebrow arches. "A month of festivities and I'm only invited for the finale? I feel cheated."
"You have clients. You have meetings. You have Gerald."
"Gerald can wait. You can't."
That flicker again. Something in his eyes I don't understand.
"Lucien. What is it?"
He's quiet for a moment. Then, "You haven't been back in four years. I don't know what's waiting for you there. I don't like not knowing."
My chest tightens. He doesn't know the half of it. He doesn't know about the guarded door, the years of being second choice, the man who taught me how to love and how to break. He knows there was someone before. He doesn't know how deep the scars go.
"You're meeting me there in three days," I remind him. "Before the main ceremony even starts."
"I know."
"Nothing's going to happen in three days."
"You don't know that." He cups my face, those dark eyes searching mine. "I don't like you walking into rooms without me. I don't like you facing things alone. That's not how this works. That's not how we work."
My eyes sting. "Lucien."
"I know. Too much. Sorry." He kisses my forehead. "Go finish packing. I have another call in ten minutes. Another person who wants to explain why their impossible timeline is actually possible."
"You're very cynical."
"I'm very experienced. There's a difference."
I slide off his lap, but he catches my hand, pulls me back for one more kiss. This one is slower, deeper, like he's memorizing the feel of me.
"Come back to me," he whispers against my lips.
"Always."
I leave him there, backlit by gray London light, already reaching for his glasses and his phone, sliding back into the skin of the man who runs empires. But I know the truth now. Underneath all that power, all that control, is someone who's scared to let me go.
I carry that with me as I find my suitcase.
Later, I'm on the floor, surrounded by clothes, trying to remember what normal people pack for a two-week Indian wedding extravaganza. Sarees? Lehengas? Something gold? I have no idea what I'm doing.
Lucien appears in the doorway, arms crossed, leaning against the frame. He's changed into his suit now, charcoal gray, perfectly tailored, the kind of suit that makes people in boardrooms sit up straighter.
"You look lost," he observes.
"I can't find my passport."
"Bedside table. Second drawer. Under the book you're pretending to read."
I glare at him. "How do you know everything?"
"I'm observant. Also, I put it there last night when you weren't looking."
"Why would you" I stop. "You were worried I'd forget."
"I was worried you'd stress. The passport is the least of your concerns. You also need your charger, the adaptor for US outlets, and your good earrings. The ones I bought you for our anniversary. The ones that match your eyes."
I stare at him. "Did you make a list?"
"I made several lists. I'm very organized. It's how I afford this house."
"You're ridiculous."
"You're ridiculous." He crosses to me, offers his hand, pulls me up. "Now pack. And Selena?"
"Yeah?"
He cups my face, those dark eyes holding mine. "One call. Any time. I don't care if I'm in a boardroom or on a plane or halfway around the world. You call, and I come. Understood?"
I nod, not trusting my voice.
"Good. Now pack the earrings. They're non-negotiable."