Golden Girl’s Intuition
1123 Words
Twenty Minutes Later
Off the Harrington property, off the pristine paved roads that line their gated community, tucked near the riverbend where wealth starts to feel like a whisper and not a shout — is my real sanctuary.
My studio.
NOW ENTERING LENA’S POV AS SHE GRILLS LUCIEN BACK AT THE ESATES
Lena
I watch Eve walk out the door like she’s got a secret tucked under that all-black outfit.
She barely said a word. No playful jab. No sleepy smile. No “let me just grab a croissant” detour. She just… dipped.
Lucien, of course, acts like he didn’t even notice.
I turn slowly from the door and narrow my eyes across the table. My twin sits there, shirtless in gray sweats like some kind of Greek tragedy come to life, sipping his espresso like it’s not suspicious.
I sip mine too. Then slam the cup down dramatically.
He doesn’t flinch.
“She didn’t sleep in her room last night.”
Lucien lifts a brow, lazy. “And?”
“She was with someone. I heard her.”
His eyes flick back to his phone. “You were drunk.”
“I was observant.” I lean in. “You know something.”
“I know a lot of things.”
“Don’t start.”
“I’m not starting anything,” he says with a smirk. “You’re the one spiraling.”
“Don’t play with me, Lu.”
“Lena,” he says, lips twitching, “are you jealous?”
I throw a napkin at him.
Before I can threaten violence, the double doors swing open and in comes the absolute theater of our existence — Mother in a lemon yellow silk robe and matching heels, and Father, freshly back from the country club in a white polo and a spritz of arrogance.
“Who are we talking about?” Mother asks, sunglasses still on, despite being indoors. “Is it juicy?”
“Don’t say juicy,” I groan.
Father’s already pouring champagne. “Is it about that boy Eve was talking to at dinner? Theo, was it? Lovely jawline.”
Lucien chokes on his coffee.
“Was she?” Mother perks up. “I love that. She needs someone to soften her edges.”
“She doesn’t have edges,” I snap. “She has trauma.”
“Well, so do we all, darling. It’s just a matter of styling it well.”
Lucien mutters, “Jesus Christ,” under his breath.
I lean back in my chair and point between them. “You two are deranged.”
“We’re invested,” Father says with a wink. “Is it so wrong for parents to be curious?”
“You were in Ibiza for three weeks and didn’t call.”
“Well, you two were fighting again.”
“He broke my Birkin!”
Lucien throws his hands up. “It was an accident!”
“Back to Eve,” Mother interrupts, completely unbothered. “So she left in a hurry. What does it mean?”
I glance at my brother, who’s way too relaxed for someone with a secret.
“She’s hiding something,” I say slowly. “And I think he knows what it is.”
Lucien just grins like the devil himself.
“She’s my best friend,” I remind him. “She tells me everything.”
“Clearly not everything.”
And that’s when it clicks. Not fully. But enough.
I sit up, eyes narrowing.
“Lucien.”
“Lena.”
“If you touch her—”
“Relax.” He stands, stretching, unapologetically smug. “She’s not a toy.”
“You think I don’t notice when you look at her like that? Like you want to ruin her.”
He doesn’t answer.
Just walks out of the kitchen.
Mother sighs dramatically. “Honestly, I think they’d be gorgeous together. Imagine the Christmas photos.”
I shoot her a look that could kill.
Because the truth is… I have imagined it.
And it scares the hell out of me.
Eve is my person. My rock. My sister in every way that matters.
Lucien? He breaks things.
And no matter how calm he acts…
I see the fire in his eyes.
He already touched her.
BACK TO EVES POV AT THE STUDIO
Eve
The studio smelled like lavender and acrylic.
Warm, lived-in. Hers.
Soft sunlight poured in through the wide windows, catching on the scattered swatches of fabric and half-finished canvases. On one end, her photography set-up stood patiently, ring light off, backdrop curled like a sleeping thing. Next to it, a rack of clothes she’d made from scratch — soft silks, sharp tailoring, and reckless cutouts. Things she designed when she still believed in being seen.
On the far wall, her vanity sat under a mirror rimmed with lights, a gift from her mother — untouched lately, but still sacred. Her mom used to say, “Dress how you feel… or how you want to feel. Either way, the clothes will listen.”
And today, the clothes were feral.
Eve exhaled, long and slow, and let herself feel the echo of last night.
His hands. His mouth. The way he said her name like a sin and a dare. The way her body had ached — deep, molten, maddening — like it had been starving for him and only him.
Lucien Harrington was a storm in human form, but when he touched her, she became the chaos. It hadn’t just been s*x. It was ownership. Fire. Reckless surrender.
And now, of course, he’d come looking for her again. He always did. That boy had a sixth sense for temptation, and she was his favorite addiction.
So she’d be ready.
She moved to her sketch table, flipping to a fresh page. Pencil hit paper like a warning shot. Her hand flew — fierce and deliberate — sketching a silhouette that whispered danger and screamed don’t play with me.
A sheer black mesh dress, clinging like smoke. Nothing underneath except a laced harness that wrapped around her like armor. A high slit sliced up one thigh, so high it dared anyone to say something. Plunging neckline. Bare back. Thin straps like whispers of control.
A collar of pearls at the throat — soft, ironic, mocking.
It was the kind of dress that took over every room. The kind of thing you wore when you were done pretending to be good.
Because if Lucien was going to chase her — again — she’d give him something to choke on.
She’d meet him head-on. Unbothered. Unapologetic.
Maybe she’d let him think he had the upper hand.
But this time, she’d be the one pulling the strings.
- Writer
