REWRITTEN AS A VILLAIN.

THE VENUS HOUSE II

(Gianne’s POV)

" Do you care to dance?" A fine young man approaches me. I’ve always wanted to do a ball dance. I size him up.

"Yes," I take the last sip of my drink and place it down, taking his hand to join the dance. Suddenly, someone pulls me back.

It is Lucian, blocking him from me. Whatever their history is, from the look of things. Everywhere is about to get tense.

My tummy starts cramping. “I have an emergency,” I say, tapping Lucian Blackwood. He gives me a cold glare and exits the ballroom. I scurry after him.

I follow him past two long staircases. He purposely ignores the elevator. By this time, I am panting heavily. He is too energetic.

We reach the hallway. He stops abruptly and leans on the wall with both arms crossed. I stop in my tracks.

“Go on, seems like you have a business up here,” he says. I am dumbfounded, nothing satisfies him. He didn't move an inch.

“When can I go home?”

“Anytime you want.” I check the time and turn to leave, but his voice stops me.

“You won’t find a cab tonight. The estate doesn’t allow them.”

Talk about shitting up people’s lives. That is not even the worst part, the pain in my stomach worsens. My uterus feels like it is about to fall out. I pressed my hands against it.

“You said you had an emergency.”

“I’ll be fine.”

“Come with me.”

He goes to the room at the end and opens it. I peek before entering, then sit on a cushion close to the fireplace, admiring the piano beside me.

I reach out to touch it, and he catches my hand. “Don’t touch my stuff without approval.” His expression is blank.

“It’ll crumble if I do, right?” I mime the sentence behind his back.

“Take a rest in the next room when you want to.” I nod in response, but my face shows disapproval of his behavior, and I curl up on the cushion under a grey blanket he hands me.

Lucian sits near the fireplace. A paper, a feather pen, and ink are in front of him. He does this kind of thing too.

I study the old-fashioned room. He starts writing, and it feels so peaceful. His rolled-up sleeves expose his veiny, clean hands. He could be a character in my novel, only if I knew how to write one.

He could have just let me enjoy my time downstairs instead of interrupting. I give him a scornful look behind his back. He doesn’t want me here, obviously.

My eyes shut as I recap the day’s events. His grandmother likes tea, ritual tea and dark horse tea. She likes pearls they're visible in her decorations.

His mother, does she like me or hate me? I achieved what I planned anyway. I open my eyes, and Lucian is not in the room anymore. His taste tells his behavior. This room is too organized, he barely lets people in.

He comes back with a violin, takes out the bow among his collections, and sits to play along with a record. Back turned against me, he tries the first time and fails.

“Make use of the other room.”

What is in there exactly that he wants me to leave here? “I will for sure.” I roll my eyes. If authority wasn't his shield, I'd have mentioned that he treats people like footnotes. I make myself even more comfortable.

He continues playing, this time faster, his shadows becoming more prominent. It looks like a spooky Hollywood scene.

The violin slips from his hand, followed by a sharp groan as he holds his hand. I spring up without thinking twice and rush to him, my heart racing like I am the injured one.

“The cut looks deep,” I ask in a worried tone. He yanks his hand away and brings out a handkerchief to stop the bleeding. I watch as he rummages through a cabinet and brings out a first aid kit. He tries applying it himself.

I see his struggle, but good for him. If he doesn’t like being touched, he should handle it.

I have forgotten my own problem for a while. Everything he does is to no avail. I finally stepped in again, ready to react if he pushed me away, but he didn't.

I bend in front of him, offering to help. I clean the wound and apply ointment. No wonder the cut is deep, his hands are too soft. While plastering the wound, I can feel his eyes on me.

My stomach flutters as I touch his hand one final time, just once, but it has a lasting impact. I need to get it together. It must have been so long since I have been with a man, or my body is reacting due to my fertility phase.

He interrupts, holds my finger. I stay still. Then he throws it aside.

“I wasn’t done,” I say, trying to contain my sarcasm.

“Hmph.” That is all he says as he returns the first aid kit.

I went into the room to take a rest away from him, his character is so undesirable. I feel goosebumps at the thought of fluttering for someone like that. Never again, not in this lifetime or another.