Young Master Lucien’s Bride

Chapter Six

Lucien’s POV

My jaw was still throbbing from where she had smacked me. Honestly, I probably deserved it. I knew I did. But there was no way in hell I could let her see that it had actually got to me.

I sat in the deep shadows of my dark office, the only illumination coming from the faint amber glow of the desk lamp. I poured another heavy splash of amber liquid into my crystal glass, downing glass after glass of scotch until the burn in my throat almost drowned out the stinging on my cheek.

Arthur stood by the heavy oak door, his hands clasped tightly behind his back. He didn't look at the bottle, but his quiet voice broke the silence, gently hinting that my handling of the situation was less than perfect.

"Sir, if I may speak frankly," Arthur said, his tone carefully measured. "Giving a traumatized teenager a list of prison rules on her very first day... perhaps it was not your brightest business move."

"Shut up, Arthur," I snapped, slamming my glass down onto the blotter. "I didn't ask for your commentary on my marriage."

"Of course, sir," he replied smoothly, completely unbothered by my glare. He stepped forward, placing a neat folder on the edge of the desk. "I merely thought you should know that the transition went smoothly. Mrs. Knight’s mother is officially settled into the new facility. She is doing fine for now, and the medical team has already begun her evaluation."

Deep down, I knew he was completely right. My chest tightened with a familiar, suffocating guilt. I looked away from him, my eyes drifting over to the security monitors glowing on my desk. I pulled up the live feed of her bedroom door. Watching that blank white wood paneling made me feel like an absolute monster for locking her away like this. But then I pictured the aggressive crowd from the courthouse, the microphones shoved into her tiny face, and the thought of the paparazzi tearing her apart made my chest tighten up even worse. It was a prison, yeah, but it was a safe one.

"Is that all, Arthur?" I muttered, staring at the screen.

"Yes, sir. Goodnight."

He slipped out of the room, leaving me alone with my scotch and my screens.

I glanced at the digital clock on my monitor. It was nearly nine in the evening, which meant it was time for my online therapy session. I rubbed my face, trying to clear the fog of the alcohol, and clicked the link to open the encrypted video call.

My therapist, Zoey, popped up on the screen. She was sitting in her usual brightly lit office, adjusting her glasses as she looked at me through the camera. Without missing a beat, she began her weird, predictable ritual.

"Good evening, Lucien," Zoey said, leaning forward. "Let's start the same way we always do. How did your day go?"

I let out a harsh, dry laugh, leaning back in my leather chair. "I got married. And then my new wife slapped me across the face."

Zoey’s eyebrows shot up, her expression instantly shifting into deep concern. She sighed, tapping her pen against her notepad. "Lucien... we've talked about this. You finally have the girl under your roof, the very one I've been telling you to stop obsessing over for the last three years. But forcing her into this arrangement? It's dangerous for your mental health, and for hers."

"She needed the money to save her mother, Zoey," I said, my voice growing colder. "I provided a solution."

"You provided a trap," Zoey countered gently, her eyes narrowing as she studied my face through the screen. "You are trying to fix your past trauma by controlling her present. It's easy to look at this as a business deal, but it's easy to say when you're not the one feeling things, Lucien. You are putting yourself in a position to get hurt again."

I tuned her out after that. The session dragged on, coming to a painful end after she gave me a ton of advice about communication, boundaries, and vulnerability—advice that we both completely knew I wouldn't be following. I didn't need a breakthrough; I just needed to keep Lila alive and safe from the vultures outside.

"Our time is up," Zoey said finally, giving me one last pitying look. "Please, just try to talk to her tomorrow. Without the rules."

"Goodnight, Zoey," I said, disconnecting the call before she could reply.

By the time midnight rolled around, the scotch had worn off, leaving me with a pounding headache and a restless mind. I couldn't sleep. The silence of the mansion was too loud, too heavy with the memory of Arabella's accident and the ghost of who I used to be.

Unable to stay in my own bed, I ended up wandering down her hallway like a total creep. I moved silently across the hardwood floors, stopping right outside her bedroom door. I leaned my head closer, just standing there in the dark, listening to see if she was still crying. I expected to hear muffled sobs, the sound of a broken girl realizing her life had been sold.

Instead of crying, I heard the sharp, rhythmic thud of footsteps. She was furiously pacing around the massive room.

"Stupid, arrogant, billionaire piece of garbage," Lila’s voice filtered through the wood, muffled but dripping with pure venom. "He thinks he can just lock me in here? He thinks he owns me? I am going to ruin his life. I'll make him regret the day he ever heard my name."

Hearing her angry rant actually made a tiny, messed-up smile cross my face. It felt like a sudden burst of warmth in my frozen chest. At least she wasn't broken. At least she was fighting back.

Suddenly, the heavy metal door handle jiggles.

My heart shot straight into my throat. Panic flared through my veins, and I had to practically dive into the deep shadows of the adjacent corridor so she doesn't catch me lurking there in my silk pajamas. I pressed my back hard against the cold wall, holding my breath as her bedroom door clicked open.

Lila stepped out into the dimly lit hallway, looking around warily. She was wearing that oversized grey hoodie—the one I knew, with absolute certainty, belonged to my useless cousin Jason.

The sight of it hit me like a physical punch to the gut. The tiny smile vanished from my face, replaced by a cold, suffocating weight in my stomach. The smell of his expensive cologne probably still clung to the fabric, the same scent she used to bury her nose in just to feel safe. It was a brutal, glaring reminder of exactly where her loyalty lies. She was here in my house, protected by my money and my guards, but her heart was still entirely with him.

I watched from the darkness as she walked toward the stairs, my jaw clenching so hard it ached. I had her in my house, but I had never felt further away from her.