The office was thick with smoke, the sharp scent of cigars mixing with the tang of whiskey. Heavy mahogany walls pressed in on the men seated around the long rectangular table, and the low burn of the chandelier gave the entire room a menacing glow.

Lucien sat at the head of the table, one arm resting lazily across the armrest of his chair, a glass of scotch balanced between his fingers. His eyes were calm, too calm, but everyone in the room knew better than to mistake that stillness for peace.

Dante leaned forward, his scarred knuckles pressed to the polished surface. “The shipment arrives Tuesday night at the port. Two containers marked as medical supplies. In reality—” he spat on the floor, “—it’s human organs, harvested and prepped for sale.”

Rafael, broad-shouldered and hot-tempered, slammed his fist on the table. “Fucking butchers. Trafficking kids and teenagers like livestock.”

Lucien’s jaw tightened, though his voice stayed flat, lethal. “And their buyers?”

Enzo, the quietest of them all, flipped through a black folder and slid a paper forward. “A syndicate out of Prague. High-paying, discreet. They’re desperate for fresh hearts and kidneys. Our source says the deal closes Wednesday.”

Lucien swirled his glass, watching the amber liquid dance. “So if we cut the head off Tuesday, there will be no deal Wednesday.” His eyes lifted slowly, pinning each man in turn. “We don’t just intercept the shipment. We burn their operation to the ground. I want every man, every contact erased.”

A murmur of approval rippled through the room, though Marco, the finance chief, cleared his throat nervously. “Lucien… a strike that big, this quickly—it’s risky. Their men will retaliate. Our costs—”

The crack of glass shattering cut him off. Lucien had slammed his drink onto the table, shards spraying. His gaze narrowed into a predator’s glare.

“Marco,” he said softly, dangerously. “Do you think I care about cost when they’re carving children open for profit?”

Marco swallowed, beads of sweat sliding down his temple. “No, Boss. Of course not.”

“Good.” Lucien leaned back, his smirk thin and sharp. “Then stop whining and start calculating how much we’ll profit once we absorb their contacts.”

Dante grinned at his side, the scar on his lip twisting. “We’ll cripple them, Boss. And the city will know who it belongs to.”

Lucien’s fingers drummed against the armrest. His mind was already there—at the docks, watching blood spill on concrete. Cold, necessary, satisfying.

“Make no mistake,” he said finally, voice low. “By Thursday, the organ trade in this city will be extinct. And anyone who touches it again…” His gaze went sharp as the edge of a blade. “They’ll wish I’d taken their heart first.”

The room fell into silence, reverent and heavy. No one dared speak until Lucien rose, the leather of his chair groaning.

“Meeting adjourned.”

Meanwhile

Selene’s stomach growled loud enough to make her groan. She rolled onto her back, glaring at the ceiling of Lucien’s bedroom like it had betrayed her.

Great. She was starving.

But there was no way in hell she was stepping foot outside in the see-through scrap of fabric that Lucien had called a dress. Not unless she wanted the whole mansion to see her like some showroom doll.

Her gaze flicked toward the armoire, then the dresser, then finally landed on the armchair in the corner—where Lucien had tossed his shirt last night. A crisp black button-down, faintly wrinkled, smelling of his cologne and smoke.

Selene bit her lip, debating. Then she huffed. “It’s not like he’s going to miss one shirt.”

Slipping out of bed, she shrugged into the shirt. It drowned her frame, the hem brushing her thighs. She rolled up the sleeves, tugged on a pair of his socks she found by the chair, and caught her reflection in the mirror.

The image made her chest tighten. She looked ridiculous, yes—but there was something worse. She looked… his.

“Get a grip, Selene,” she muttered, shaking her head. “You’re not his anything.”

Her stomach growled again, louder this time, demanding action. With a sigh, she stepped out of the room, determined to find the kitchen.

⸻

The halls of Lucien’s mansion stretched on endlessly, gilded and intimidating. Every corridor looked the same, every door locked or leading somewhere foreign. After ten minutes of wandering, Selene was sure she was hopelessly lost.

And then she turned a corner—and collided with someone.

“Watch where you’re—” the woman snapped, then froze when her gaze landed on Selene.

She was tall, maybe Selene’s height, with sharp cheekbones and long black hair that shimmered under the lights. Dressed in a crimson silk dress that clung to her every curve, the woman radiated confidence and danger.

Her eyes swept over Selene’s outfit—the oversized black shirt, the socks—and her lip curled. “Well. That explains it.”

Selene frowned. “Explains what?”

The woman crossed her arms, nails painted blood-red. “Lucien’s sudden distraction. You must be the new toy.”

Selene stiffened. “And you must be the old one.”

The woman’s smile was all teeth. “Careful, sweetheart. I don’t take kindly to little strays who think they can replace or talk back at me.”

“I’m not trying to replace anyone,” Selene shot back, heat rising in her chest. “But judging by how rattled you are, maybe you should worry less about me and more about why he doesn’t want you anymore.”

The woman’s eyes narrowed to slits. “You don’t know what you’ve gotten yourself into. Women who warm Lucien’s bed… don’t last long.”

“Then maybe you should ask yourself why you didn’t.” Selene’s voice dripped venom. “Because from where I’m standing, you look like someone who’s already been discarded.”

The silence stretched taut between them. For a second, Selene thought the woman might actually strike her.

Instead, she sneered, leaning close enough for Selene to catch the bitter scent of her perfume. “My name’s Bianca. Remember it. Because the day Lucien gets bored of you, and he will, I’ll be the one laughing.”

With that, Bianca’s heels clicked away, her laughter echoing down the hall.

Selene exhaled shakily, pulse racing. The hunger that had driven her out in the first place was gone, replaced by a knot of nerves and rage in her stomach.

“Bitch,” she muttered under her breath.

She turned down another hall, no longer looking for the kitchen. She just needed space—anywhere Bianca’s voice couldn’t follow. Her wandering led her deeper into the mansion, away from the brighter, busier corridors. The air grew cooler, the silence heavier. And then she saw it.

A door at the end of the hall, different from the rest. Sleek, metallic, with a keypad and a fingerprint scanner. Out of place in the otherwise old-world grandeur of the mansion.

Selene’s curiosity flared.

She approached, pressing her fingers against the scanner. Denied. She frowned, tried another finger. Denied.

Fine. Password, then. She typed “1234.” Denied. She tried “Lucien.” Denied.

Her hand hovered over the keypad, frustration gnawing. And then, almost without thinking, she entered her date of birth.

The light blinked green. The lock clicked open.

Selene’s breath hitched.

The door swung inward, revealing a room dimly lit, lined with shelves and cabinets. Not weapons. Not money. Not drugs.

Photographs.

Everywhere.

She stepped inside slowly, her pulse pounding. Photos pinned on corkboards, stacked in boxes, framed on shelves. All of her.

Selene as a toddler in a park, clutching an ice cream cone. Selene in kindergarten school uniform, standing in the background of a playground. Selene on her tenth birthday, blowing out candles—someone had taken that from outside the window.

Her knees weakened. “What the hell…”