Chapter 18
EIGHTEEN
brIAR
A week passes, and for the first time in longer than I want to admit, I feel like I can breathe again.
The security Lucien put in place has been everywhere—quiet, unobtrusive shadows, rotating shifts of men who blend into the background like they’re part of the architecture.
At first I resented it, resented the feeling that I was being watched, followed, controlled.
And all because of an ex who wouldn’t let me live the only life gifted to me.
But after the first few days, when the tension in my shoulders finally eased and I realized I could walk to the nearby shops for lunch with Stacy, go shopping for food or have a drink at a local bar after work without looking over my shoulder every two seconds, that resentment changed.
Now I feel…safe.
Even saying the word in my own head feels foreign. I’m not used to safety. I’m used to bracing for the next blow, swallowing the next lie, learning the rhythm of danger. I’m used to surviving, not living.
And for the first time in forever, I’m living.
Moretti Global is buzzing with energy this week, preparing for the massive black-tie charity event Lucien’s company is hosting at The Metropolitan Museum of Art.
It’s all anyone can talk about—donor lists, displays, lighting rigs, celebrity appearances, the logistics of catering and security, and which wing of the museum will host the dinner versus the auction.
It’s an event that’ll draw every powerful name in New York, and somehow, unbelievably, I’m a part of it.
The week feels like adrenaline wrapped in silk. I’m drowning in work, but in the best way. I’m exhausted, but fulfilled. I’m tired, but smiling.
And part of that—maybe most of that—is Lucien.
Every time I see him, something inside me tightens and loosens at the same time.
Every glance across a boardroom table feels like a secret.
Every brush of his hand feels dangerous and addictive.
Every night we’ve spent tangled in his soft sheets feels like discovering something new I never knew I could want.
I shouldn’t fall for him. I know better. I know how dangerous it is to rely on someone. But I can’t help it. I want him. God help me, I need him.
When Stacy walks into my office Friday afternoon, waving her handbag in the air like she’s signaling a lifeboat, I’m already halfway to the edge of collapse. The weekend cannot come soon enough.
“Shopping,” she declares. “You need dresses. Shoes. Lipstick. Sparkles. Immediately.”
I laugh, shutting down my laptop. “Is that the professional term for it?”
“It’s the mental health term,” she says, looping her arm through mine. “Lucien Moretti isn’t the only one who knows how to spend money. I’m pretty good at it these days myself, although perhaps on a smaller budget.”
I laugh as two security guys fall into step behind us the moment we exit the building. It would have felt insane a month ago. Now it’s just protocol. Expected. Assuring.
We walk through SoHo, the air crisp, the breeze cool enough for jackets but bright with late-autumn sunshine.
We pop into boutique after boutique, trying on dress after dress.
Sequins. Velvet. Silk. Deep reds and emerald greens and silver that sparkles like stars.
Stacy emerges from a dressing room in a gold gown and twirls, nearly knocking over a mannequin.
“I look like a disco ball someone wished on,” she groans.
“You look incredible,” I say, meaning every word. My cousin, no matter how much she may oppose, is absolutely stunning.
Our shopping bags multiply. Champagne appears in our hands, courtesy of a glamorous saleswoman who clearly smells money. The kind of day we never would’ve dared dream about back home. The kind of day where the world feels full of possibility instead of survival.
By the time we drop into a small café with white marble tables and strings of fairy lights woven along the ceiling, my feet ache but my heart feels light.
Stacy drops into the seat across from me, eyes glittering with mischief. “Okay. Spill. You look like a woman who hasn’t slept because she’s been getting thoroughly ruined in bed. Tell me everything.”
Heat flashes up my neck. “Stace—”
“No. No censoring. I’m your cousin, not a nun.”
I laugh, pushing my hair behind my ear. The café is warm, the clink of cutlery and espresso machines almost cozy. “Fine. You want the full truth?”
“Yes,” she says, leaning in like she’s about to receive state secrets.
“Lucien and I…” I pause, because the words feel too big.
Too real. “It’s intense. The chemistry is—God—it’s like nothing I’ve ever felt.
It’s hot and overwhelming and addictive.
And when I’m with him, I feel…” Seen. Wanted.
Safe. Alive. Like I’m more than the broken pieces Matteo left behind.
Like I’m someone worth choosing. Worth loving…
Stacy’s grin widens, then softens. “Briar. That’s amazing. I’m so happy for you.”
“But?” I ask, because I can hear the but in her voice.
She hesitates. “Just be careful, okay? Lucien Moretti has a reputation. He doesn’t do relationships. He doesn’t do forever. I don’t want you to get hurt.”
“I know,” I whisper. And I do know. I know exactly who he is and what he comes from. But I’m already falling, and I don’t know how to stop. Maybe I don’t want to. A part of me, even knowing this truth, also hopes that I’ll be different. That he’s different with me. That’ll I change him.
Stacy reaches across the table and squeezes my hand. “And Matteo?”
At the sound of his name, my stomach tightens, but today there’s more confidence than fear. “Nothing. I haven’t seen him. Not once. I think he finally figured it out that I’m well protected, both at work and where I’m living at the moment. I think he’s done.”
Stacy exhales in relief. “Thank God. He always scared me. The way he looked at you—like he owned you. Like he could break you and enjoy watching.”
“He can’t hurt me anymore.” I know that Matteo did break me and enjoyed every shattering moment he inflicted on me. Lucien would never let it happen again. I deserve peace, and through my actions, meeting Lucien has given me what I craved most.
A life.
We finish eating sandwiches and split a slice of lemon tart, and for the first time in years, I laugh without it feeling fragile.
When I excuse myself to go to the bathroom, Stacy waves me off with her fork, phone already out to scroll Instagram.
The two security men stay near the entrance to the café, watching everything.
I push through the hallway toward the restroom, heels clicking softly over the tile. It’s quiet inside the ladies, the kind of hush that feels suspended, like the air is holding its breath. The fluorescent light hums overhead and there’s a distinct scent of disinfectant.
I push open the stall door, but before I can close it, a force slams it hard back at me. The edge of the wooden door cracks against my mouth with a sickening snap. Pain explodes across my lip and I taste blood.
I stumble backward, hitting the toilet tank hard enough to bruise, vision blurring from the sudden shock. The stall door slams shut. The lock clicks. And then he’s there.
Matteo.
His face twisted with fury, breath smelling of bourbon, eyes wild and sharp with manic rage. “Did you think you could hide from me?” he hisses, stepping forward.
My blood turns to ice. “I—Matteo, please—”
“Oh, you remember how to beg, do you?” He grabs my jaw in one brutal hand, squeezing hard enough that stars spark at the edges of my vision.
“Stop playing hard to get. You’re embarrassing yourself.
Come home. Now.” His fingers dig harder, nails biting into my skin.
Pain flares hot and sharp down my neck. “You’re my wife.
You belong next to me, not spread under Lucien fucking Moretti like some whore. ”
My brain screams. Panic claws up my throat. This is the nightmare, the cage, the darkness I swore I’d never fall back into. “I’ll come home,” I choke, words warped by his grip. “Just—please—let go—”
“You’ll do what you’re told.” He leans in, spittle hitting my cheek. “Promise me.”
“I promise,” I whisper. Lie. Lie. Lie. Just get out alive.
He yanks me upright, forcing my body against his. My lip throbs, blood dripping down my chin, staining my top. His hand clamps the back of my head, crushing my mouth against his.
The taste is foul, bitter, like drinking gasoline. I try to pull away, but his fingers dig into my scalp like hooks. “Kiss me,” he growls. “Beg.”
My pulse pounds so hard I feel dizzy. I force my lips to move because I know what happens when I don’t obey. I want to die. I want to kill him. I want to rip his throat out with my teeth. I want Lucien. God, I want Lucien. “Please,” I whisper against his mouth. “Forgive me.”
“There she is,” he says, voice smug and mocking with satisfaction.
He presses another bruising kiss to my mouth, then steps back.
“I’ll send a car tomorrow. Be ready. And if you try to run again—” His smile curves, slow and murderous.
“You won’t like how it ends.” Then he turns and walks out.
The stall door swings shut behind him, clanging hollowly.
For a moment, I can’t move. I slide down the cold tile wall, shaking so hard my teeth rattle. Blood drips from my split lip, spattering onto my blouse and jeans. My hands won’t stop trembling.
He found me. He got past security. He touched me. I let him. I kissed him. I’m sick. I’m weak. I’m terrified. I hate him. I hate myself.
I shove myself upright, stumbling toward the sinks. My reflection is a horror—blood smeared across my chin, mascara smudged, terror widening my eyes. I push out the door, legs barely functioning. The café falls into stunned silence when the first gasps ripple across the room.
A woman puts a hand to her chest. Someone else whispers, “Oh my God.”
Stacy shoots out of her seat like she’s been shocked, horror twisting across her features. “Briar?”
I can’t speak. I shake my head and the tears finally break, hot and choking. The security team reacts instantly. One of them is already calling backup, the other wrapping an arm around me protectively, steering us out through the cafe, which watches in horrified silence.
We’re rushed into a black SUV at the curb. Doors slam. Engines roar. We speed away. I hear the bodyguard in the front seat speaking urgently into his phone. “Possible assault. Moretti needs to know now. Subject evaded on foot. Redeploying coverage grid.”
My heartbeat slams like gunfire. From the back seat, Stacy’s crying, clutching my hand so hard it’s turning white. “Briar, Jesus Christ, what happened?”
I try to speak, but the words dissolve.
Then I hear it—Lucien’s voice, roaring through the phone the guard holds to his ear.
I can’t make out the words, but the rage is unmistakable, low and lethal.
The SUV turns sharply, not toward the office but toward the private entrance for Lucien’s loft.
Men are already waiting there, armed, tense, swarming around the vehicle.
The doors open and Stacy helps me out. My knees nearly buckle. We’re guided straight to the elevator and up, the numbers blurring.
When the doors slide open, Lucien is there.
His expression stops my breath.
He moves fast—too fast—and suddenly his hands are on my face, gentle but trembling, eyes scanning every inch of me with devastation and fury. “Briar,” he breathes, voice breaking on my name.
I flinch instinctively, body locked in terror, and the devastation in his eyes cuts through me like a blade. He stares at my blood, my trembling, my ruined face, and something inside him combusts.
I see it, silent as the grave but it’s there. His chest heaves, fury clenching his jaw, tightening so hard a muscle leaps in his cheek. He looks like a man holding himself together with threads.
Stacy swallows hard. “She needs medical attention.”
Lucien lifts his gaze, dark and lethal and vibrating with violence. “Who did this?” he asks, voice quiet. Deadly.
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out.
He already knows.
His eyes burn like fire catching oxygen. And then, softly—terrifyingly— “Matteo Romero just signed his death certificate.”