Amara.
After dinner, Lucien stood and extended his hand, the invitation quiet but impossible to refuse. I took it, feeling the familiar jolt of electricity as his fingers brushed mine.
“Come, let me show you around," he said softly, and I let him lead me.
The house was even more mesmerizing than I remembered. Wide corridors, polished wood floors that gleamed under soft lighting, walls adorned with rare art, and the subtle scent of sandalwood and something faintly metallic lingering in the air.
Lucien moved with the effortless authority of someone who belonged everywhere, and I followed, trying not to stare too openly.
He led me from room to room: the library with its soaring shelves and hidden nooks, a music room with a grand piano and instruments lining the walls, a sunroom where li
