(Lucien's POV)
He didn't even remember sending the text. His fingers moved before his brain could catch up, and then there it was, blinking back at him on the screen: "I'll come home tonight."
Three years of marriage.
Lucien Hart didn't believe in anniversaries. Not anymore. They felt like forced applause after a bad performance. But tonight wasn't about belief. It was about guilt. About the way Elena had looked the last time he walked out, standing in the doorway with her hands trembling at her sides like she couldn't tell whether to hold him or let him go.
So he showed up.
He didn't bring flowers. He didn't text again. He just slid his key into the door, the weight of the moment pressing into his spine.
Inside, the house smelled warm. Lavender. Something baked. It hit him like a memory.
And then he saw her.
Elena stood at the top of the stairs in silk the color of spilled wine, her hair loose, dark waves cascading over bare shoulders. She was barefoot. Heels forgotten. Her smile—hesitant, sweet—was the kind that cracked something inside his chest.
She looked... happy. Hopeful. God, she looked like she had waited.
He didn't say her name. Couldn't. It felt like his throat had turned to grit.
She came to him, and for a second, everything else—the noise in his head, the ache in his gut, the memory of Diane's voice on the phone—faded. He kissed her. Not the way a man kisses his wife. The way a man kisses to forget.
They stumbled into the bedroom, limbs tangled, breath shallow. He lifted her like she weighed nothing, laid her down, and hovered over her.
"Condom," he whispered, the last string holding back years of restraint.
She reached for the drawer, handed it to him without hesitation.
But something was wrong. The wrapper—slit.
Lucien stared at it.
Cold washed over him like a bucket of ice.
His eyes snapped to hers.
Her lips were parted, her eyes wide—not guilty. Confused.
But it didn't matter.
It was happening again.
His jaw tightened, knuckles white around the foil. "Who taught you this trick?" he rasped, voice low and sharp.
"What—?" she blinked, glancing down, finally seeing it. "No, Lucien—I didn't—I would never—"
Her panic was real. He could see it. And still—he couldn't stop the storm rising in his chest.
She scrambled to the drawer, pulling out the rest. All torn. All opened with a precision that sent a chill down his spine.
His breath caught. Once. Then hardened. "It was you," he said flatly. "No one else comes in here."
Elena froze. "No... no, that's not true. Your mother—she came in last week, she—"
"My mother?" He laughed, bitter. "The same woman who's never said your name without curling her lip?"
She stared at him, something cracking in her face. "She told me she wanted a grandchild. Said she'd recognize me as your wife—she even gave me the family bracelet…"
Lucien's expression twisted. He didn't believe her. Not really.
But for the first time, doubt stirred.
Elena stepped closer, barefoot on the cold marble, her voice trembling. "Lucien, I've never lied to you. Not once. Why is it so easy for you to think the worst of me?"
"Because you never deny it with your eyes," he snapped.
She flinched.
Four years ago. The hotel room. The scent of her skin. The chaos. The confusion. The headlines the next morning. The wedding that followed was like an apology.
"God, you're impossible," she whispered, voice raw. "I thought… Tonight meant something. I thought we were—"
He turned away, shoving his arms through the sleeves of his shirt.
"Don't do this," she said, grabbing his wrist. "Don't walk out again."
His phone rang.
He looked at the screen. Answered.
"Yes," a pause. Then, warmth in his voice. "I'll be there soon."
It was Diane.
She didn't need to hear the name. She knew that voice. That softness in him—it only ever belonged to one person. And it had never been her.
"Lucien," she breathed. "You're leaving to see her, aren't you?" Her voice cracked, like a glass about to shatter.
He didn't deny it.
The silence between them was suffocating. Elena pulled her robe tighter around herself like armor and moved to block the door. Her eyes blazed with the fury of someone who had finally broken.
"You promised me today," she said. "You sent that message. You said you'd come home."
Lucien didn't blink. "I came."
"That's not enough!" Her voice rose. "You kissed me like you meant it. You looked at me like I was someone. And now you're leaving me for her again?"
He looked at her then, really looked.
Her face was flushed, tears brimming but unshed. Her fingers clenched at her sides. The silk robe clung to her in places she hadn't noticed, but he did. Her entire body trembled—half fury, half heartbreak.
"Elena," he said slowly, "you're not in a position to question me."
Her chest heaved.
And then came the words that stopped him in his tracks.
"If you walk out that door—we're done. I'll file for divorce."
It was quiet. Too quiet.
His heart jumped—but his feet didn't.
He didn't speak.
He walked out.
He told himself he had no choice.
But in the mirror near the foyer, he caught a glimpse of her.
Standing there like a ghost, holding her robe closed with both arms. Her eyes were dry, but her soul looked drowned.