Episode2
1315 Words
---
Lucien Blackwell’s penthouse was so calm and silent that a breath might echo.
Ariella stood at the beginning of the hallway, holding tightly to her worn out bag like it was some sort of lifeline. She wouldn't have brought something this worn out and damaged to a place like this but she didn't anything else.
A man in a suit—not Lucien—had met her at the lobby and escorted her upstairs. No introductions. Just a nod and a gesture into the 60th-floor residence overlooking Manhattan like it was a kingdom and Lucien was its king.
“Mr. Blackwell will see you shortly,” the man said, then vanished down a hallway, leaving her to stand alone.
She felt invisible already.
Until his voice shattered the quiet.
“You’re early.”
Ariella turned and found Lucien in the living room, his back to her, a glass of something amber in his hand. Again. Like the whiskey anchored him. Like the burn gave him permission to feel something. Or forget.
“You said noon,” she replied.
“It’s ten forty-three.”
“You said one hour yesterday,” she countered, stepping into the room, holding her ground. “I guess we both bend time when it suits us.”
Lucien turned.
This morning, he looked even more dangerous. Crisp white shirt, black slacks, no tie. Barefoot, somehow. Like a man who could afford to disregard formality in his own empire.
And his eyes…those sharp, grey ice shards raked over her like they were cataloguing weaknesses.
“You brought one bag.”
“I don’t need more.”
“Or don’t have more?”
She stared him down. “You said I’d be protected. Not interrogated.”
He raised an eyebrow, then gestured to the sofa. “Sit. We need to establish the rules.”
She sat, posture straight, defiant. Because this wasn’t just a business transaction. It was her life on the line. Her daughter’s life.
Lucien walked to the bar, poured another glass. “Would you like one?”
“Do I look like I drink at ten in the morning?”
He smirked. “You look like someone who’s forgotten how to indulge.”
Ariella didn’t respond.
“Fine. Rule one,” he began, strolling to the window. “No lies. If I ask you something, you answer. Fully. I don’t like secrets.”
She flinched. The irony almost suffocated her.
“Rule two. You will attend every function I require. You will act the part. Wear what’s provided. Say what I tell you to say. You will be perfect.”
“And if I’m not?” she asked quietly.
He looked at her then, and the weight of his gaze was a promise.
“Don’t make me find out.”
Ariella swallowed hard.
“Rule three,” he continued. “No romantic entanglements outside this marriage—public or private. You will not embarrass me. In return, I won’t interfere in your time, your privacy, or your...whatever else you do with your days. As long as it doesn’t compromise the image.”
“And if you break that rule?”
Lucien tilted his head. “Then you’ll be compensated accordingly.”
“So it’s business,” she murmured.
“It’s survival.”
He walked over and handed her a thick stack of papers.
“The contract. Review it. Sign where marked. Our lawyer will file the marriage license tomorrow.”
She stared down at the pages. Legal terms. Clauses. Restrictions. Payments.
Half a million dollars.
Her hands shook.
“Half up front. The rest on completion,” Lucien said.
“And if I leave before the year’s over?”
“You forfeit the remainder. And the security I’ll provide disappears.”
Security.
Money. Medical help. A chance for Zara to live a normal life.
Ariella nodded once and signed.
---
That night, she moved into the guest suite.
It was bigger than her entire apartment. Polished floors, silk sheets, glass walls. Cold, perfect, and silent.
Zara wasn’t here.
She couldn’t be. Not yet.
Ariella had told her babysitter it was a short trip. Just two nights. But as she sat on the edge of the massive bed, staring at the skyline, she knew she couldn’t keep her daughter a secret forever.
Lucien wanted no lies.
And this was the biggest one of all.
---
The next morning, Ariella woke to a calendar.
Literally.
An assistant—another suit named Carla—delivered a printed schedule.
Monday: Press shoot, Vogue.
Tuesday: Blackwell Tech board dinner.
Wednesday: Gala rehearsal, Hamilton House.
Thursday: Pre-wedding announcement party.
She just stared at it, surprised.
“I’m i suppose to be getting married to him this week?” she asked.
Carla blinked. “Of course not. The wedding’s in three months. But the world needs to believe it now. Which means we begin branding you as his fiancée immediately. Hair, wardrobe, etiquette.”
“I was a performer,” Ariella said. “I know how to play a role.”
Carla gave her a tight smile. “This role eats people alive.”
---
That afternoon, she met the press.
Lucien rested his hand lightly on her waist , nothing inquiring, as they posed for photos outside the Plaza Hotel. He didn’t do anything that was more than necessary, but when he did, her skin burned.
Camera flashes went off like lightning.
“Lucien! Over here!”
“Miss Quinn, how did you two meet?”
“What’s the ring worth?”
Lucien answered for her.
“Worth every penny. She’s worth every penny.”
Ariella didn’t flinch. Didn’t smile. Just gazed up at him like he was the sun and she the devoted moon.
She hated herself a little.
But it worked.
By evening, their engagement was the #1 trending topic worldwide.
---
Lucien drove them home himself.
The silence in the car was heavy.
“You did well today,” he said, eyes on the road.
“I’m an excellent liar,” she replied, tone flat.
He gave her a glance. “Don’t beat yourself too hard. The world loves lies.”
“What about you?”
“I deal in truths people pay not to hear.”
Ariella turned to the window.
“You said no secrets. But you’re full of them.”
Lucien said nothing.
And neither did she.
---
Back in the penthouse, Lucien poured another drink.
“I don’t sleep much,” he said suddenly. “So don’t be surprised if I’m up at odd hours.”
“Insomnia?”
“Nightmares.”
She looked at him. Really looked.
He had the world in his pocket, but something about him was wrecked. She recognized it. Because it mirrored her own damage.
“Then why do this?” she asked quietly.
Lucien took a long sip. “Because power without stability is chaos. And I need stability right now.”
“Is that all I am to you? A tool to buy time?”
His voice dropped an octave. “Do you want to be more?”
Ariella’s breath hitched.
“No,” she lied.
“Then go to sleep. You’ve got fittings in the morning.”
---
Hours later, Ariella sat awake in bed, staring at her phone.
She scrolled through the baby monitor app connected to Zara’s nanny cam.
Her daughter was sleeping soundly.
Thank God.
She closed the app, and her photo gallery opened.
A single image stood out.
Zara—giggling, bright-eyed, covered in flour from their last pancake disaster.
Next to her was a snapshot of a man Ariella had cropped out. All except for one thing.
A tattoo peeking from under a crisp white sleeve.
An anchor, near the wrist.
And her stomach twisted with dread.
Because now, seeing Lucien up close every day…
She realized something she hadn’t before.
That tattoo was his.
- Writer
