Lunch
1123 Words
Luca's POV
The meeting was over, yet her presence lingered.
Luca Volkov sat behind his obsidian-black desk, still as a sculpture, his cold, calculated eyes flicking over reports—but his mind wasn’t on exports or supply chains. It was on her.
Caelia Morozova.
The woman who had stepped into his family’s life uninvited. The woman who had saved his father from bleeding out in a dark alley. The same woman who now sat just beyond the frosted glass that divided her cabin from his own.
She had been seated beside him in the meeting only an hour ago. She had said nothing. Taken no unnecessary notes. Hadn’t asked any questions or interrupted with irrelevant comments.
Still. Silent. Observing.
And yet, Luca had noticed her more than anyone else in that room.
She didn’t fidget. She didn’t nod mindlessly like the others trying to impress him. She didn’t bat her lashes or adjust her blouse to catch his eye. She sat with a kind of stillness that demanded respect. Not because she asked for it, but because it was impossible not to give it to her.
There was something in the way she held her body—straight-backed, chin tilted ever so slightly downward, like she was listening to the whole world without ever needing to speak.
Her presence reminded him of snow. Not the soft, romantic kind. The sharp, silent kind that freezes everything it touches.
---
Noon.
Viktor entered quietly, tablet in hand.
“She’s settling in,” he murmured. “Working through the merger files. No errors yet. Fast, too.”
Luca didn’t reply. He rarely responded to obvious observations. If she had made a mistake, he would’ve heard it.
Viktor continued. “Lunch is being arranged. She placed a direct order—grilled salmon with sautéed vegetables. No sugar.”
Luca’s fingers paused for half a second over his desk before tapping once.
She hadn’t waited to be asked. She hadn’t chosen something easy or common. She knew what she wanted. Clean, quiet, and precise nourishment. Just like the way she moved.
“Escort her here,” he said.
---
He heard her before he saw her.
The soft sound of heels against polished floors. The hushed breath before the knock.
She stepped inside. Her eyes widened, just barely, as they scanned the space.
Black marble. Shadow-toned walls. Abstract, expressionless paintings. Minimalist shelves lined with old war books and black leather folders. Floor-to-ceiling windows behind his desk let in only filtered daylight, making the air seem colder than it was.
Her shoes clicked once on the stone before she stilled.
She wore a cream-white blouse tucked neatly into a high-waisted charcoal pencil skirt. Her heels were matte black. No noise. No shine.
Her hair was tied in a low, sleek bun, with a few loose strands framing her face. Her features were delicate—sharp cheekbones, soft full lips, and eyes so light grey they looked silver in this lighting.
There was something about her face. The kind of quiet beauty that didn’t ask to be admired, but made it impossible not to.
No heavy perfume. Just a faint trace of jasmine, clean and barely there.
She was composed. But her eyes betrayed her—briefly. Widening at the realization that she was in his cabin. Not the outer conference space. Not some lunch area.
His personal cabin.
And then her gaze drifted toward the far right corner of the room.
The door.
Steel grey. Without a handle.
That door didn’t open for anyone. No assistants, no partners, no outsiders.
Only his father, Dmitri. Only himself.
And now... her.
Luca gestured to the seat across from his own.
“You’ll eat here,” he said, voice cold and clipped.
No greeting. No explanation. Just a fact.
She didn’t question it.
She sat down slowly, folding her hands in her lap before picking up her fork.
---
The door opened again.
Dmitri entered, his presence louder than footsteps. His suit was pressed midnight-blue, his silver cufflinks glinting like steel. His movements were slower than before the incident—but not weak. Just considered.
His father looked at Caelia and gave a short nod.
“You saved my life,” he said, tone even but not cold. “That is something I don’t take lightly.”
She looked up, blinking once. “Sir, I—”
“You’ll have lunch here every day,” he cut her off, but his tone softened. “And dinner. With us.”
Her spine straightened just a little.
“I understand.”
---
They ate in silence. Only the sound of cutlery against porcelain.
Dmitri spoke occasionally about business updates—shipment delays, regional meetings, security. But he didn’t ask questions. He simply updated.
Luca didn’t speak at all. He didn’t need to.
He was watching her.
How she held her fork. How she cut her food in neat, bite-sized squares. How she didn’t glance around nervously or ask pointless questions.
But most of all—he watched her eyes.
They were always scanning.
Not in fear. In awareness.
She had seen something before. Something real. Something violent. And now her mind moved like a soldier’s. Fast, calculated, always anticipating the next threat.
She hadn’t asked for this position. She hadn’t begged. She hadn’t flirted or grovelled or played games.
She had simply been there—and now she was.
---
After the meal, Dmitri stood, brushing nonexistent crumbs from his suit. He looked at Caelia one last time.
“Tomorrow—bring Auren. Dinner is for family.”
She froze, caught off-guard.
“My brother?”
Dmitri nodded. “Yes. Auren.”
She gave a small, stunned nod.
He left.
She glanced at Luca one last time, her eyes unreadable.
Then she left, quietly.
---
The room returned to silence.
Luca leaned back in his chair, the leather creaking softly. He stared at the door she had walked out of.
Then he tapped his screen. Typed her name.
Caelia Morozova – Background Check
Results: Clean. Too clean.
He narrowed his eyes.
No red flags. No criminal history. No family scandals. No noise.
He requested a deeper scan. “Run unregistered aliases. Cross-check international trauma records. Run underground family traces. Every database.”
The system blinked. Processing.
Then…
One result.
A hidden file. Flagged and sealed.
But the details weren’t revealed. Only a redacted summary and a list of protected status codes.
Luca stared. His jaw tensed.
Who exactly are you, Caelia Morozova?
He didn’t have the full answer. But he would find it.
He leaned back in his chair again, staring out the tinted glass. His voice barely above a whisper:
“You’re not just a survivor… You’re a scar. Just like me.”
- Writer
