Married To My Dead Husband Brother

Eight

The next morning Lucian was already at the table when I came downstairs.

Two places were set again. He sat reading something on his phone, a cup of black coffee in front of him. When I took the chair across from him he glanced up once, then went back to the screen. We ate in near silence. The only sounds were the soft clink of cutlery and the distant movement of staff in the kitchen. I kept my eyes on my plate, still thinking about the way he had carried me from the library the night before and the words he had whispered while I slept.

Halfway through the meal he set his phone down.

“You’re coming to the company with me today.”

I looked up, surprised. “Your company?”

He gave a short nod. “Yes. Be ready in twenty minutes.”

I swallowed the last of my toast and nodded. “Okay.”

Part of me wanted to ask why. Another part of me knew better. Lucian Blackwood didn’t explain himself. He simply decided, and the rest of the world adjusted.

Thirty minutes later we were in the back of a black SUV, bodyguards in the front and another car following close behind. The city moved past the tinted windows, tall buildings, heavy traffic, people who had no idea what kind of man sat beside me. Lucian stared out his window the entire ride, jaw tight, one hand resting on his knee. I stayed quiet, hands folded in my lap, trying not to think about the blood I had seen two nights ago or the way his touch had felt against my cheek in the library.

His company was nothing like I expected.

The building rose higher than almost everything around it, all glass and steel, the Blackwood name in bold letters across the top. As soon as the car stopped under the covered entrance, staff in suits began moving faster. The moment we stepped inside with the bodyguards surrounding us, conversations died. People who had been walking down the wide lobby suddenly found something urgent to do at their desks. No one made eye contact for longer than a second. The air itself seemed to tighten around Lucian’s presence.

We rode the private elevator all the way to the eightieth floor. The doors opened onto a quiet, elegant corridor with dark wood and soft lighting. Lucian led me past a few closed doors and into a large office that took up an entire corner of the building.

It was bigger than some apartments I had lived in as a child. Floor to ceiling windows looked out over the entire city. A massive desk of black wood sat near the glass. There was a sitting area with leather couches, a small bar, and a wall of shelves filled with books and awards. The space smelled faintly of his cologne and expensive leather.

Lucian walked to the desk, set his phone down, then turned to me.

“Stay here for a while,” he said. “Pick any book you want. I have a meeting a few rooms down. I won’t be long.”

I nodded, still taking in the size of the place. He stepped closer and crouched in front of me the way he had in the library the night before. For a second he just looked at me, gray eyes steady and unreadable. Then he reached up and tucked a loose strand of hair behind my ear. His fingers brushed my skin lightly before he dropped his hand.

“I’ll be back,” he said.

He straightened and left without another word. The door clicked shut behind him.

I stood alone in the middle of the huge office, the city stretching endlessly outside the glass. The quiet felt heavier up here. I walked slowly around the room, trailing my fingers over the edge of the desk, looking at the titles on the shelves. Most were business and law books. A few novels sat on a lower shelf. I pulled one free and carried it to the couch near the window.

I tried to read.

The words wouldn’t stay still on the page. My mind kept drifting to the way Lucian had crouched in front of me, the careful way he had fixed my hair, the low promise that he would return. It was the same man who ordered people around with a single cold look. The same man who had sat unmoved while someone bled on his floor. And yet these small, almost gentle moments kept happening, leaving me more confused than before.

Time moved slowly. I checked the clock on the wall. Ten minutes. Fifteen. Twenty. Outside the glass the city kept moving, tiny cars, distant helicopters, people living ordinary lives far below. I wondered what those people would think if they knew the man who owned this building had bought a wife the way other men bought cars.

Thirty minutes had passed when the office door suddenly flew open.

A woman strode in without knocking. She was tall, dressed in a sharp black suit, her dark hair pulled into a perfect bun. Expensive heels clicked against the floor. She looked like she belonged in this world of glass and power. The moment her eyes landed on me sitting on the couch, she stopped short.

Her expression shifted from surprise to something sharper.

“Who are you,” she said, voice cold and clear, “and what are you doing in Lucian’s office?”