The conference hotel was a sleek, modern tower in downtown Chicago—glass walls, marble lobby, the kind of place where academics pretended they weren’t thrilled by the luxury.
Eliza had never traveled with Lucian before.
The invitation had come two days after their night in his study: a professional email to the department list about the Victorian Literature symposium, followed by a private text.
‘You will accompany me as my research assistant. Shared suite. Pack appropriately’
Appropriately, she’d learned, meant whatever he decided.
They’d arrived Friday afternoon. He’d checked them in while she waited with the luggage, hyper-aware of the discreet black leather collar hidden beneath her silk scarf—a thin band with a small silver O-ring that could pass as a choker to the untrained eye.
