CHAPTER THREE
571 Words
LUCIEN
I slide into the backseat of the car, the leather cool against my palms. My driver greets me with a polite nod through the mirror.
“Good morning, sir.”
I nod back. “Deveraux Global.”
He pulls into the street, and the city passes by in a blur of winter gray. I rest my elbow on the window, watching buildings, people, and flashing lights fade into one long streak.
Work.
My refuge.
My distraction.
My punishment.
I buried myself in it years ago—meetings, expansion deals, construction bids, international contracts. Anything to keep my mind busy. Anything to drown the nightmares. And it worked. Too well. The company my parents built is now one of the biggest construction firms on the eastern coast.
All because I refused to stop.
Grandfather says I’m obsessed.
Maybe I am.
Better to drown in work than memories.
When the car stops in front of the skyscraper, the cold wind cuts into my face the second I step out. A few employees outside look shocked to see me arrive before eight.
I walk through the glass doors, and every head turns.
“Good morning, Mr. Deveraux.”
“Morning, sir.”
“Welcome, sir.”
I give a small nod. I don't smile. I never do unless I want something.
The lobby is busy, employees rushing around, heels tapping, phones ringing. But the moment I step toward the elevator, the crowd parts like water making way for a storm.
The private elevator waits for me—steel, black, fingerprint-locked. Only I can use it. I insisted on that the day I took over the company.
Less people.
Less noise.
Less eyes watching me.
I press my thumb to the scanner. The doors open with a quiet hiss.
The ride is silent. Just how I like it.
When I reach the top floor, the doors open directly into my office wing. My secretary Marissa Pierce looks up immediately from her desk.
“Good morning, sir.”
She’s efficient, sharp, and knows how to keep her distance. Exactly why I hired her.
I don’t have a PA.
I don’t need someone breathing over my shoulder, hovering, watching me like a project to be studied. Privacy is the only thing I have left that's mine.
“Schedule?” I ask.
“You have a virtual meeting at nine, contract reviews at eleven, and your grandfather requested lunch but said you’ll decline.”
I huff a small breath. “He’s not wrong.”
She gives a restrained smile. “Also, the board wants an update on the Hong Kong project.”
“They can wait.”
“Yes, sir.”
I push into my office.
Floor-to-ceiling windows.
Minimalist black furniture.
Steel. Silence. Order.
Everything perfectly controlled — except the part of my mind still replaying last night’s nightmare.
I sit behind my desk and open my laptop. Numbers, projections, architectural layouts fill my screen. Familiar. Steady. Safe.
I lose myself in the work.
Blueprints.
Contracts.
Firm budgets.
Engineering reports.
The world narrows into focus.
The noise inside my head fades.
Hours disappear.
This is what I’m good at.
This is what keeps me upright.
This is what keeps the darkness from swallowing me whole.
But somewhere buried under all the discipline and control .......A whisper of the past stirs. Because this year I am attending that charity event and for the first time since that day.
- Writer
