Unshackled Ziva

Chapter 2

The morning light in Lucien’s penthouse was a merciless editor. It streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows, highlighting every perfect, sterile surface and exposing every flaw. A single speck of dust would have been a rebellion. There were none.

Ziva moved through the open-plan space like a ghost in her own home. Her bare feet were silent on the polished concrete, a stark contrast to the echoing clicks of her heels from the night before. The memory of the gala clung to her, the weight of the word provincial, the heat of her shame, and the strange, lingering chill of that unknown man’s gaze. She had replayed that moment in the dark, trying to decipher its meaning. Had he been judging her, too? Or something else?

She filled the sleek, Italian kettle, the click of the switch too loud in the quiet. Lucien was still asleep. He slept the way he did everything else: beautifully, and without disturbance.

As she waited for the water to boil, her eyes drifted to her work satchel slumped by the sofa, a shabby, canvas intruder in the room of glass and steel. It held her personal sketchbook, the one Lucien called her "little hobby diary." The urge to open it, to lose herself in the clean, forgiving lines of her own imagination, was a physical pull. But she didn’t. Instead, she took down two porcelain cups, their rims so thin she feared they might shatter at her touch.

A sound from the hallway. Lucien emerged, not rumpled and sleepy, but already crisp in a tailored dressing gown. He looked like a man who ordered his dreams into neat folders. His smile was morning-bright, devoid of any lingering sharpness from the night before.

“Good morning, darling. Did you sleep well?” He came up behind her, pressing a kiss to the crown of her head. His affection felt like a receipt being stamped. Transaction completed.

“Yes,” she lied, the word automatic. “It was a lovely evening.”

“It was productive,” he corrected gently, reaching past her for the coffee beans. “Old man Fischer is practically ready to sign. Your being so quiet actually helped, he finds ambitious women grating at these things.”

The casual blow landed with practiced ease. She focused on pouring the boiling water, watching the steam bloom.

“I have a surprise for you,” he announced, his tone shifting to one of generous benevolence. He retrieved a small, black velvet box from the counter and slid it toward her. It wasn’t jewelry-box small; it was the size of a deck of cards.

A cold trickle of apprehension replaced the steam in her veins. Gifts from Lucien were rarely just gifts. They were upgrades. Corrections.

“Open it.”

She lifted the lid. Nestled inside wasn’t a gem, but the sleek, obsidian gleam of the latest model smartphone. It was terrifyingly expensive, a slab of dark glass and ambition.

“Your old one was practically a fossil,” Lucien said, chuckling as he took it from the box, powering it on with a long, manicured thumb. The screen glowed to life, a perfect, empty rectangle. “This one has all the new security features. And it syncs seamlessly with my devices. See?” He pulled out his own phone, tapped a few times, and hers chimed softly. “Now my calendar, my contacts, everything is right there for you. So I can always reach you, darling. And you’ll never miss an important meeting or dinner.”

He said it with such warmth, such apparent concern. For your safety. For your career. The logic was a polished shell, impossible to c***k open and protest. To question it would be to question his care for her.

He handed her the activated phone. It was warm from his hand, and heavier than it looked. “I’ve already taken the liberty of setting things up,” he continued, leaning over her shoulder. His finger swiped across the screen, bringing up her calendar. Every hour of the coming week was already populated: a lunch with a client’s wife she found dull, a dentist appointment she hadn’t made, a reminder to pick up his tailored suits. Her own, nebulous plans to visit St. Brigid’s orphanage that weekend were nowhere to be seen, erased by the smoother, more important narrative of his life.

“There,” he said, satisfied. “Now we’re completely connected.”

The word connected seemed to thicken the air. She felt a phantom sensation then, not of a tether, but of a fine, silken net being drawn snug around her. Her location, her contacts, her schedule it was all now visible, manageable, his. The love in his eyes was real, she told herself. It was just heavy. It was a love that built beautiful, inescapable rooms.

“Thank you, Lucien,” she said, the words tasting of ashes and obligation. “It’s incredibly thoughtful.”

“Of course,” he murmured, kissing her temple. “You know I only want what’s best for you.”

He moved away to make his coffee, the moment complete. Ziva looked down at the phone. Her reflection in the dark screen was distorted, a pale smudge trapped in the glass. She thought of her old, cracked phone, tucked in a drawer. It had been slow, and the battery died too quickly. But its emptiness had been its own kind of space. A private corner.

A soft chime came from the device in her hand. A notification slid onto the pristine screen.

From Lucien: Remember: Dry cleaner closes at 6. Don’t be late. x

She stared at it. He was ten feet away. The message wasn’t a reminder; it was a demonstration. A quiet, friendly click of a lock engaging.

She placed the new phone carefully on the counter, its surface like a deep, still pool she was afraid to fall into. The morning light gleamed off it, a tiny, perfect black mirror in their perfect, sunlit cage. The gift, she understood with a sinking clarity, wasn't in the receiving. It was in the silence she had to keep in order to accept it.