The Unspoken Rule
1269 Words
The doors to the Penthouse suite clicked shut, sealing out the noise of the city, the party, and the world.
The silence was sudden and absolute.
Clara backed away until her spine hit the cool glass of the floor-to-ceiling window. Behind her, lightning forked across the sky, illuminating the dark room in jagged flashes.
Lucian stood by the door. He was unbuttoning his cuffs, his movements slow and deliberate. He tossed his jacket onto a leather armchair. Then his tie. Then he undid the top two buttons of his shirt, exposing the tanned skin of his throat.
"You said..." Clara’s voice trembled, but she forced herself to speak. "You said we were going to fulfill the contract. What does that mean?"
Lucian walked toward her. He didn't rush. He moved like a predator who knew the exits were locked.
"The contract states that we are husband and wife," Lucian said, his voice low and rough. "Tonight is our wedding night. The staff expects it. My family expects it. If I sleep on the couch, or in another room, Marcus will know by morning. And if Marcus knows, the Board knows."
He stopped inches from her. He was so close she could feel the heat radiating from his chest.
"So," Lucian murmured, reaching out to touch the delicate lace strap of her gown. "We must make it convincing."
Clara stopped breathing. Her heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird. She remembered the debt. She remembered the screen showing her father. She knew she had sold herself, but the reality of what that meant was crashing down on her only now.
"I won't," she whispered. Tears pricked her eyes. "I signed a paper, Lucian. I didn't sign away my body."
Lucian’s hand froze on her shoulder. His grey eyes searched hers, dark and unreadable.
"Do you think I am going to force you, Clara?"
"You threatened to kill my father," she reminded him, her voice shaking. "You are capable of anything."
Lucian stared at her for a long, tense moment. Then, he let out a short, harsh laugh. It wasn't a happy sound. It was bitter.
"I am a monster, yes," Lucian agreed, dropping his hand. "But I am not a rapist."
He stepped back, turning away from her to walk toward the massive king-sized bed that dominated the center of the room. He sat on the edge, pulling off his shoes.
"I don't want your body, Clara," he said coldly, without looking at her. "I bought your name. I bought your presence. I have no interest in sleeping with a terrified child who thinks I am the devil."
Clara blinked, confusion washing over her fear. "But... you said fulfill the contract."
"I meant we share the room," Lucian said, standing up and walking toward the bathroom. "And the bed. We sleep together. That is all."
"We... sleep together?" Clara repeated.
"It’s a big bed," Lucian called out over his shoulder. "Stay on your side, and I will stay on mine. Unless you snore. In which case, I will smother you with a pillow."
He disappeared into the bathroom. A moment later, she heard the shower turn on.
Clara let out a breath she didn't know she was holding. Her knees gave way, and she slid down the glass wall until she was sitting on the floor, surrounded by the mountain of ivory silk.
He wasn't going to touch her.
She should have felt relieved. She did feel relieved. But beneath the relief, there was a strange, confusing sting. He has no interest, he had said. The man who had kissed her so passionately in the church—who had looked at her like he wanted to devour her—had just dismissed her like she was nothing more than a piece of furniture.
Good, she told herself firmly. Keep it business. Rule Number Three.
She struggled out of the heavy wedding dress, leaving it in a pile on the floor. She found her suitcase—which Martha had packed—and pulled out the oversized t-shirt she used for sleeping. It was old, faded, and had a cartoon cat on it.
It was the only piece of her old life she had left.
She put it on and crawled into the massive bed. The sheets were Egyptian cotton, cool and smooth. She curled up on the far left edge, as close to the side as possible without falling off.
Minutes later, the bathroom door opened.
Clara squeezed her eyes shut, pretending to be asleep.
She heard Lucian walk into the room. She heard the rustle of fabric as he dressed—probably in pajama pants. Then, the mattress dipped under his weight.
He was heavy. His presence seemed to tilt the entire world toward him.
He lay down on the right side. The lights clicked off, plunging the room into darkness.
Silence stretched between them.
"Clara," his voice came from the dark. It was deep, rumbling through the mattress.
"I'm asleep," she whispered.
"You're a terrible liar."
Clara opened her eyes. She couldn't see him, just the outline of his broad shoulders against the dim light from the window.
"What did Marcus mean?" she asked into the darkness. "About your last fiancée?"
Lucian didn't answer for a long time. The silence grew heavy, suffocating.
"Her name was Isabella," Lucian said finally. His voice sounded hollow. "She was beautiful. She was perfect. She was a 'good match' for the family."
"What happened to her?"
"I didn't protect her," Lucian said simply. "My enemies couldn't get to me. So they got to her. They put a bomb in her car three days before our wedding."
Clara gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. "Lucian..."
"That is why I chose you, Clara," Lucian continued, his voice turning cold again. "Because you are nobody. You have no connections. No power. If I married a woman from another crime family, she would bring baggage. She would be a pawn. You... you are a blank slate."
"So I'm disposable," Clara whispered. The realization hurt more than she expected.
"No," Lucian said. She felt him shift, turning his head toward her in the dark. "You are safer. Because you are already at the bottom. The only way you go is up."
"That's not comforting."
"It wasn't meant to be. Go to sleep, Clara."
Clara closed her eyes, but sleep didn't come. She lay there, listening to the rain hammer against the glass and the steady, rhythmic breathing of the dangerous man lying inches away from her.
He had lost his first love to a bomb. He had married Clara to save his empire.
She realized then that the coldness wasn't just arrogance. It was armor. He wasn't keeping her at arm's length because he despised her. He was keeping her away because he was terrified that if he cared about her, she would end up like Isabella.
Clara shifted, her hand brushing against his arm in the dark. He flinched but didn't pull away.
"Lucian?" she whispered.
"What?"
"I don't snore."
A long pause. Then, a low, reluctant chuckle vibrated in the darkness.
"We'll see," he muttered.
And for the first time since she had met the Devil, Clara Rossi fell asleep without fear.
- Writer
