Lucien POV
I wake to sunlight flashing through the curtains and my cheek still throbbing.
The slap. Right. Mara's palm connecting with my face hard enough to leave a mark that probably mirrors the handprint burning into my conscience.
I deserved it.
The thought is unfamiliar. Uncomfortable. I've spent years building a life where I'm never wrong, never vulnerable, never the one who has to apologize.
And yet.
I touch my cheek. Still tender. A reminder of the moment I crossed a line I can't uncross.
The suite is quiet. Too quiet.
I find her on the balcony, legs tucked under her in the wicker chair, staring at the ocean. She's still in pajamas—silk pants and a tank top that should look casual but somehow makes her look more unreachable than any designer gown.
"You're up early," I say.
