LUCEIN DE CLAIREMONT
1075 Words
— LYNCHARD TOWERS, THE NIGHT BEFORE THE GALA —
The penthouse was silent again.
But this time, Krishna didn’t flinch at it. She sat at the edge of the massive bed, hands resting in her lap, the dress Brigid had just delivered laying across the bed beside her.
A black gown—elegant, expensive, and screaming that it didn’t belong on someone like her.
She stared at it like it might bite her.
Eric hadn’t spoken to her since breakfast. No instructions. No cruelty. No kindness.
Just absence.
And somehow, that was worse.
He’s letting the silence teach me something, she thought.
That I’m nothing more than a doll in a box. A thing to be displayed. But never to speak.
Then the door opened.
Eric entered without knocking, his gaze scanning the room with the cold calm of a storm about to form.
He walked toward the dress without looking at her. “You’ll wear this tomorrow. No arguments.”
Krishna didn’t move. “It’s beautiful.”
Eric raised an eyebrow but said nothing.
“Why me?” she asked quietly.
He turned. “Because you’re forgettable.”
Her heart twisted, but she didn’t look away. “Is that what you need? A forgettable wife?”
He stepped closer. “I need someone who knows how to disappear when the act is done.”
A long pause.
Then, she whispered, “And do I disappear from your life… or from the world?”
Something in his eyes flickered. A brief storm. Then it was gone.
“You ask too many questions for someone bought with silence,” he said, voice low. “Tomorrow, you’ll be perfect. Or I’ll remind you why you were easier to ignore back in that mansion.”
He walked toward the door.
Krishna stood. “I’m not her, you know.”
He paused.
“I’m not Nancy. I won’t beg to be noticed.”
He looked over his shoulder, that cruel smirk returning to his lips. “Good. I hate beggars.”
He left, and the door shut like a prison cell.
But Krishna didn’t sit.
She stared at the gown.
And for the first time since she arrived, a single thought crossed her mind—
If I’m a pawn in his game… I’ll learn how to play, too.
♡ — MANHATTAN CHARITY GALA, NIGHTFALL — ♡
The lights outside the banquet hall glowed like stars trying to outshine the darkness inside.
Limousines lined up like royalty waiting their turn. Cameras flashed. Laughter echoed from velvet-covered entryways.
And inside… power shifted like perfume in the air. The kind of power only men like Eric could walk through like it bowed to him.
Krishna stepped out of the car behind him, her hand on Eric’s arm. Her black gown hugged her in ways she wasn’t used to — silk over scars. Confidence over fear.
Heads turned.
Whispers sparked.
🗣Who is she?
🗣Is that the girl he married?
🗣Sadly we didn’t attend.
🗣Did they even get married or it’s just for show?
🗣She’s too soft… too breakable…
And then—
🗣Too pretty for someone like him.
Eric heard them all. He didn’t flinch.
But his hand slid down and tightened slightly around Krishna’s waist.
Possessive. Marking. Unapologetic.
She looked up at him. His expression didn’t change.
But his body said everything: You’re mine. They can look. They can wonder. But they’ll never touch.
Across the ballroom, Tristan stood near the open bar, already two drinks in, watching the scene unfold like his favorite soap opera.
“Damn…” he muttered to himself, smirking. “She cleans up dangerous.”
Then—
A glass of champagne stopped mid-air.
Because he arrived.
Not Eric. Not Tristan.
A rival.
Lucien De Clairmont.
— Billionaire tech prince. French-American.
— Eric’s only true business competitor and former best friend.
— Ice-cold intellect wrapped in sensual charm.
Lucien walked in wearing a navy velvet tuxedo, jaw sharp, smile sharper. And the moment he saw Krishna…
He paused.
Then smiled.
Not at Eric.
Not at Tristan.
At her.
Tristan choked on his champagne. “Oh no,” he muttered. “Not him.”
Lucien approached slowly, like a man who didn’t ask permission to speak to someone else’s wife.
“Bonsoir, Eric,” Lucien greeted smoothly.
His voice was velvet dipped in wine. “You didn’t tell me your… accessory was this stunning.”
Eric’s jaw tensed.
Krishna blinked. “I’m not—”
Eric cut in coldly. “She’s my wife.”
Lucien’s smile widened just slightly.
“But of course.” He turned his gaze to Krishna again.
“Enchanté, madame. I don’t suppose your husband lets you dance?”
Before she could speak—
“She doesn’t dance with strangers,” Eric snapped.
Krishna looked between them—Lucien’s playful charm and Eric’s quiet rage clashing like a storm behind a glass wall.
Lucien leaned forward just enough to whisper, “Pity. Because I’ve seen how he looks at you. Like he owns you.”
Krishna’s breath caught.
Eric’s hand slid from her waist to the small of her back—firm. Claiming.
“Touch her,” he warned Lucien, voice like frost, “and I will bury your empire so deep, it won’t rise in the next century.”
Lucien held his hands up in mock surrender. “So protective. Almost like… you care.”
Eric didn’t reply.
But Krishna felt it.
In the way his thumb brushed the base of her spine.
In the way he stepped slightly closer—blocking her from Lucien’s full view.
It wasn’t for the cameras anymore.
It was for himself.
Tristan finally approached, drink in hand, trying to cool the heat in the air.
“Well, this isn’t awkward at all,” he grinned. “Lucien, aren’t you late for ruining someone else’s night?”
Lucien chuckled and kissed the back of Krishna’s hand. Eric didn’t stop him—but his entire body became still, deadly.
“Enjoy your evening, madame,” Lucien said, then disappeared into the crowd.
When he was gone, Eric leaned down.
Voice low. Dangerous.
“Stay close to me all night.”
Krishna tilted her head slightly. “Why? So no one else tries to buy what you already paid for?”
His eyes darkened.
“No,” he whispered. “Because the next man who touches you… I won’t just warn him.”
And the look in his eyes?
He meant it.
- Writer
