MARRIED TO MY ENEMY BILLIONAIRE HEIR

Suspicion

The morning after the club, sunlight poured into my apartment, in shades that felt too sharp, too bright for a mind still racing. Coffee steamed in my mug, but I barely tasted it. My thoughts were on him, Lucien. The waiter, the man who shouldn't matter, yet already did. I replayed last night endlessly. Every moment, every glance. The way he had observed me in the club, not as a customer, not as a man desiring entertainment but with awareness. A subtle attention that made my chest tighten, attention I didn't want to feel. I returned to the restaurant that evening as if nothing had changed. The wait staff hustled, the music thrummed faintly from the speakers, the familiar clatter of glasses echoed. But I moved mechanically. My mind, my body, my instinct all screamed caution. Lucien was there, carrying trays as if the last few months had been nothing but a practice drill. The same calm expression, he had the same dark, slightly messy hair and the same calm, intense presence. He caught my gaze across the room and my stomach twisted. I told myself, it's just a man, just a coworker, nothing more. By the third hour, I began to notice details, small ones. Details that didn't make sense for someone who supposedly "worked here" for a paycheck. The way his shoes were polished but not showy. Designer but subtle. The faint silver crest on his phone, the same one I had glimpsed last night. The precision in how he carried trays, like someone trained, disciplined, almost militaristic, and then it hit me. The subtle logo wasn't just decorative, it was corporate, high-level, Vale Industries level. I froze, my pulse spiked. I slipped into the storage room, pulling my phone from my pocket. I didn't want him to see me staring, typing, investigating, uncovering his real identity and not what he sold to us. My hands shook slightly as I searched for Lucien Vale. And there it was, a clean, precise bio on LinkedIn, Lucien Vale. Age twenty-eight. Heir to the Vale empire. My stomach dropped. I stared at the screen as if the letters themselves had been poisoned. Lucien Vale, the son of Victor Vale, the same man whose company has burned my mother. I had been dancing, performing, surviving, moving steps away from the very man I had vowed to destroy. He appeared behind me without warning, I jumped, clutching my phone like a weapon. "You've been very quiet, he said, almost teasing. I spun around, "I.....uh.... just checking the inventory," I lied, fumbling with a box of napkins. He raised an eyebrow, "you seem distracted "I'm not," I said quickly, too quickly. His gaze was too sharp and penetrative. He leaned casually against the doorframe. "Something on your mind?" I swallowed hard, my pulse raced. "Just tired," I muttered "Ah," he said the word slow and deliberate. "Understandable, working nights can do that to a person."I nodded, trying to appear calm. But my hands betrayed me, gripping the phone tighter in my pocket. The shift ended, but I didn't leave immediately. I stayed in trouble shadows, watching him interact with coworkers, listening and measuring. There was a careful charm to him, a quiet confidence that didn't need to shout. Every smile, every gesture, every carefully chosen word told me he was not a mere waiter and now I know why. Lucien Vale, the enemy. That night I returned home, pacing my small apartment filled with anger, shock, betrayal and confusion. I had been so careful, so vigilant, I had built walls around my heart, around my life yet he has entered my world effortlessly. Somehow, uninvited, and yet completely present. I remembered the way he had watched me at the club, not as the dancer, not as Isabelle, but as Seraphina Cruz. Vulnerable, dangerous and very alive. I had tried to ignore it, I had tried to pretend it was just curiosity, just coincidence, just chemistry. But it wasn't, it was Lucien Vale, the heir of everything I despised. For three days, I avoided him. Avoided the restaurant, avoided the club. I told myself it was temporary, just enough time to breathe, to think, to plan. But the universe has a sense of irony. On the fourth day, the restaurant manager pulled me aside. "Lucien asked if you could cover a double shift tonight," she said. "He.... mentioned he wanted to work with you." I clenched my jaw, "why?" The manager shrugged, "he didn't say, he just insisted." I swallowed, "fine." That night, walking through the city streets, toward the restaurant, I rehearsed every interaction in my head. Every gesture, every possible trap he might spring. I was prepared or so I thought. When I arrived, he was already there, waiting at the back entrance. "Seraphina," he said, nodding. Calm, neutral, nothing betraying a hint of amusement. "Don't," I said sharply."don't try to charm me tonight." "Charm you?" He repeated, raising a brow. "I wasn't aware that was my goal." "Good," I snapped, keeping my tone sharp. "Because it won't work." He studied me carefully, as if reading the lines on my face for clues. "I'm not trying to charm you," he said slowly, "I'm just observing." "That word again! Observing!" I hated that I felt exposed. The shift began. The restaurant buzzed with its usual clientele. Lucien moved silently, efficiently, effortlessly and I followed, pretending to focus on tables, refilling water, carrying plates, but every glance I stole at him made my stomach churn, not with fear, but with familiarity because no matter how much I tried to convince myself that he was the enemy, my body remembered something my mind refused to accept. The way his presence steadied the air around me, the way his silence felt intentional, not empty or careless and that terrified me more than his name ever could. Enemies are easier to fight than men who make you feel seen, and Lucien Vale sees everything.

A cold realization settled in my chest, curiosity was a trap. Every instinct screamed to stay away, yet my feet moved closer to him. Lucien Vale wasn't just an enemy; he was a storm I couldn't predict, and I was standing directly in its path.