Lucien wasn't a man easily provoked.
But that note?
That note burned.
He didn't sleep that night. He read it again, as if her handwriting itself held some kind of hidden blade. "You want to hunt me? Fine. But don't be surprised when you end up caged, too."
No one talked to him like that.
No one ever threatened him.
So when morning came, Lucien didn't wait. He went straight to the west wing—her favorite lounge—and found her exactly where he expected: barefoot on the velvet couch, legs curled under her, reading a book she probably hadn't opened until he walked in.
She didn't look up. "Took you long enough."
"You think you're clever."
"No," she replied, turning a page. "I know I am."
He crossed the room, every step sharp with fury. "Whatever game you're playing—end it."
She finally looked at him.
And smiled.
"But where's the fun in that?"
Lucien leaned down, palms on either side of her on the couch, caging her in. His voice dropped low. Dangerous.
"I could end this marriage. Have you out of this house in an hour."
"You won't."
"Why not?"
She tilted her head. "Because then you'd never find out what I know."
Silence.
They stared at each other. Close. Too close.
Lucien's pulse ticked under his skin. "You're bluffing."
"Then call it."
Her eyes didn't flinch.
He hated her.
And maybe that was the problem.
Because hate—real hate—meant she got to him.
He straightened. "You've got until the gala next week. Impress the board. Play your little wife act. After that, if I find so much as one lie—"
"Then what?" she cut in. "You'll finally stop pretending this is a game?"
Lucien's eyes flashed.
She returned to her book. Calm. Unbothered.
"Better be careful, Lucien," she added quietly. "You might not like the truth you dig up."
He walked out without a word.
But he knew one thing:
He had underestimated her.
And that mistake?
Might cost him everything.