The woman they cannot use
1732 Words
Chapter Nine
The Woman They Cannot Use
War returned at dawn.
Elara knew it before anyone said a word.
The mansion woke too early. Doors opened sharply. Footsteps moved fast through corridors. Voices murmured behind closed study doors. Guards who usually nodded politely now barely noticed anyone as they passed.
When she entered the kitchen, Mrs. Voss was already there directing three maids and insulting all of them equally.
“You’re late.”
“It’s seven.”
“Exactly.”
Elara glanced around. “What happened?”
Mrs. Voss continued arranging silverware with military precision.
“A shipment was intercepted. Two men disappeared. One accountant resigned suddenly.”
“That sounds bad.”
“It sounds Tuesday.”
Elara nearly smiled.
Then she noticed the older woman’s hands were tighter than usual.
“Where is Lucien?”
“In his study since five.”
“With coffee?”
“With rage.”
⸻
Lucien had not changed clothes.
He stood at the far end of his study in yesterday’s shirt, sleeves rolled, tie discarded, staring at city maps spread across a long table.
Matteo leaned nearby with two captains, all looking like men who preferred bullets to paperwork.
“No one moves cash through the north docks until we clean it,” Lucien said.
“That costs us,” one captain replied.
Lucien’s gaze lifted.
The man immediately regretted speaking.
“It costs less than betrayal.”
Silence.
Another phone buzzed.
Matteo checked it and swore softly.
“What now?” Lucien asked.
“News site posted photos from the gala.”
Lucien’s expression chilled.
“Take it down.”
“We’re trying.”
Matteo hesitated.
“There are comments.”
“I don’t care.”
“You should.”
He handed over the phone.
Lucien glanced once.
A photo of him and Elara dancing.
Another of his hand at her waist.
Headlines speculating about “the mysterious woman beside reclusive financier Lucien Moretti.”
His jaw hardened.
“They know her face now.”
Matteo said nothing.
Because they both understood what that meant.
⸻
Elara was arranging flowers in the sitting room when Lucien entered.
He crossed directly to her, took her hand, and turned it palm up as if checking she was real.
She blinked.
“Good morning?”
“We’re moving you.”
“What?”
“To another property. Today.”
She pulled her hand free.
“No.”
His eyes narrowed slightly.
“This is not a debate.”
“That usually means it should be.”
“Elara.”
“You don’t get to relocate me like furniture.”
Dangerous silence.
Then he inhaled slowly.
“Photos from last night are public.”
She frowned. “So?”
“So now enemies know exactly who you are.”
“I’m still me.”
“To them, you’re leverage.”
“There it is again.” She stepped back. “You talk as if I’m an object people carry around.”
“I talk as a man whose enemies kidnap, torture, and kill.”
“And I talk as the woman you keep deciding for.”
His jaw flexed.
“I am trying to keep you alive.”
“And I’m trying to stay myself.”
They stared at each other, anger covering fear on both sides.
Finally he spoke more quietly.
“I cannot lose focus because I’m wondering if someone has found you.”
The honesty landed hard.
Her anger softened, but not enough.
“You can’t lock me away every time danger appears.”
“No,” he said. “Only every time danger breathes.”
⸻
By noon, half the house knew they had argued.
Servants always knew everything.
Elara escaped to the greenhouse behind the east gardens, the one room in the estate where things grew instead of obeyed.
Glass walls held warm sunlight. Vines climbed iron frames. White orchids and roses filled the air with sweetness that almost erased gunpowder memories.
She knelt beside a tray of seedlings, trying to calm down.
“You hide beautifully.”
She looked up sharply.
Matteo stood in the doorway with two bottles of sparkling water.
“I’m beginning to dislike how people keep finding me.”
“I’m talented.”
He handed her one bottle and sat on a stone bench.
“He means well.”
“He means control.”
“Same language to men like him.”
“That’s tragic.”
“It is.”
She twisted the cap.
“Why are you helping him?”
“I’m helping me. If you leave, he becomes unbearable.”
Despite herself, she laughed.
Matteo grew more serious.
“He’s scared.”
“Lucien doesn’t scare.”
“You’d be amazed.” Matteo glanced at the orchids. “He’s been untouchable so long he forgot what fear feels like. Then you arrived.”
“That’s not romantic.”
“No,” Matteo said. “It’s expensive.”
She looked down.
“I don’t want to be hidden.”
“Then don’t be.” He shrugged. “But understand something—he can fight men, bullets, courts, governments. He cannot fight uncertainty. It makes him brutal.”
“And what makes him gentle?”
Matteo smirked.
“You.”
⸻
That evening Lucien found her in the greenhouse.
Sunset turned the glass walls gold. Leaves cast shadows across the floor. She stood watering jasmine, pretending not to notice him.
He watched her a moment.
No guards. No witnesses. No weapons visible.
Still the most dangerous room he’d entered all day.
“You ignored lunch.”
“You ordered lunch.”
“I offered lunch.”
“You sent three people.”
He accepted that.
She kept watering the plant.
He moved closer.
“You are angry.”
“Yes.”
“You are beautiful when angry.”
“I’m also unavailable.”
That nearly made him smile.
He stopped beside her.
“I was nineteen when I first had to choose between love and survival.”
She stilled.
“My mother wanted to leave the city. My father wanted to keep power. Men came for us before either choice was made.”
His gaze remained on the vines ahead.
“She died in the crossfire.”
Elara’s breath caught.
Lucien’s voice stayed calm in the way grief sometimes does when it has aged too long.
“I learned that hesitation kills people around me.”
She set the watering can down slowly.
“So now you never hesitate.”
“Until you.”
He finally looked at her.
“And I don’t know what that makes me.”
She stepped closer.
“Human.”
His expression tightened.
“That has rarely been useful.”
“It might be now.”
A long silence passed.
Then he reached into his coat pocket and held out a phone.
Her phone.
“I had Matteo retrieve your old things from your room.”
She took it carefully.
“Thank you.”
“I also had security added to the greenhouse, your wing, and the east grounds.”
“There you are again.”
He almost smiled.
“Compromise.”
“That word usually means both sides are unhappy.”
“Then we’re succeeding.”
⸻
Night fell warm and still.
For the first time in days, dinner was quiet.
Lucien ate with Elara in the private dining room, just the two of them. Candlelight softened the severe space. No advisors interrupted. No phones rang.
Halfway through the meal, she asked, “What was your brother like?”
He looked up sharply.
No one asked about his brother.
After a pause, he answered.
“Loud.”
“That’s all?”
“He laughed at serious things.”
“I like him already.”
“He stole my shoes once and sold them.”
She blinked.
“That’s less charming.”
“He was twelve.”
A memory moved across Lucien’s face like rare sunlight.
Elara smiled softly.
“You miss him.”
“Every day.”
He looked down at his plate.
“And I hate that you know that now.”
“Why?”
“Because every truth about me becomes another way to wound me.”
She set down her fork.
“Then stop giving truths to people who want weapons.”
His gaze lifted to hers.
“And give them to you?”
“If you’d like.”
The silence that followed felt intimate enough to touch.
Then alarms exploded through the mansion.
Red lights flashed.
Lucien was on his feet before the second pulse.
“Stay here.”
She stood too.
“No.”
“Elara.”
“No.”
Matteo burst through the door.
“Front gate breach. Van through the barrier.”
Lucien’s expression went glacial.
“How many?”
“Unknown.”
He grabbed Elara’s hand and pulled her with him.
“Lucien—”
“You wanted no hiding,” he said coldly while moving fast through the corridor. “Congratulations.”
They reached the west staircase as guards raced past.
Shouting below.
Metal striking metal.
A crash.
Lucien shoved her behind him and drew his pistol.
Three masked men stormed the foyer.
The first dropped before raising his weapon.
The second fired wildly, hitting a statue.
The third ran toward the stairs—
Toward Elara.
She didn’t think.
She grabbed a bronze umbrella stand and swung with all her strength.
It smashed into the man’s knee.
He screamed and fell.
Lucien fired once.
Silence.
Everyone stared.
Matteo looked impressed.
“Well,” he said. “She learns fast.”
Lucien turned slowly to Elara.
“You hit an armed man with décor.”
“You were busy.”
His chest rose once.
Then, to everyone’s shock, he laughed.
Short. Disbelieving. Real.
He holstered the gun and stepped close.
“Are you hurt?”
“No.”
“Good.”
He kissed her hard in the middle of the ruined foyer while guards dragged bodies away.
Mrs. Voss entered carrying a tray.
She stopped, looked at the corpses, the flashing alarms, the kiss.
Then sighed.
“I leave one dining room unsupervised.”
Matteo grinned.
Lucien pulled back just enough to murmur against Elara’s lips:
“They cannot use the woman who keeps saving me.”
And for the first time since entering his world, Elara believed it might be true.
- Writer
- chap_listContents
- likeADD