The Moretti mansion had too many hallways.

That was Ivy’s first official conclusion after four days trapped inside it.

Too many hallways.

Too many locked doors.

Too many silent men in black suits pretending not to watch her every time she walked past.

And worst of all—

too much Lucien.

Not physically.

Emotionally.

The man somehow haunted rooms he wasn’t even inside.

She noticed his coffee cup left near the library window that morning.

A black pen resting beside financial reports in the study.

A jacket folded over a chair in the music room.

Every object looked exactly where it belonged.

Controlled.

Precise.

Like him.

It irritated her more than it should.

Ivy wandered through the east corridor barefoot with a mug of coffee balanced in one hand and Marta’s warning from yesterday replaying in her head.

Some doors inside this house stay closed for a reason.

Naturally, that made her want to open all of them.

She paused near a staircase she hadn’t noticed before.

Interesting.

Very interesting.

The upstairs halls stayed quieter than the rest of the mansion. No staff moving around. No guards posted near the walls. Only soft winter light spilling through tall windows across dark floors.

Ivy climbed slowly.

At the top sat another corridor lined with black doors.

One stood slightly open.

Well.

That felt suspicious immediately.

She stepped closer.

No sound inside.

The room beyond looked dark and enormous.

Office.

Definitely office.

A bad idea office.

Ivy glanced over both shoulders.

Still nobody.

“Okay,” she whispered to herself. “Quick peek. Tiny illegal peek.”

She slipped inside.

The room smelled like cedarwood, paper, and Lucien.

That last realization annoyed her instantly.

Massive windows overlooked the snowy grounds below. Shelves lined the walls from floor to ceiling. Dark wood. Leather chairs. Low golden lamps.

Everything looked expensive enough to have emotional issues.

At the center sat a black desk large enough to host diplomatic negotiations.

Files covered one side.

A laptop rested open beside a crystal glass half-filled with whiskey.

It wasn’t even noon.

Concerning.

Ivy stepped farther inside slowly.

Her socks sank into thick carpet.

The room felt different from the rest of the mansion.

Less polished.

More… lived in.

A record player sat near the windows beside stacks of vinyl records. One chair had been pulled slightly away from the desk, like somebody actually sat there instead of posing dramatically for magazine covers.

Then Ivy saw the photograph.

Small silver frame near the bookshelf.

Lucien stood beside an older man in a tuxedo. Younger. Maybe early twenties. Expression already cold.

The older man’s hand rested on Lucien’s shoulder.

Neither looked happy about it.

“Yikes,” Ivy murmured softly. “Generational trauma in high definition.”

Her gaze drifted toward the desk again.

One folder sat slightly separated from the others.

BENNETT.

Her stomach tightened instantly.

She crossed the room before common sense caught up.

The folder opened beneath her fingers.

Pages.

Bank transfers.

Addresses.

Photos.

Photos of her apartment building.

Photos of Rosie leaving school.

Photos of her.

Ivy’s pulse jumped hard.

“What the hell?”

She flipped faster now.

More reports.

Her father’s name repeated over and over.

Debt schedules.

Transactions.

Surveillance notes.

Then—

another page.

A photograph slipped loose and landed softly against the desk.

Ivy froze.

The picture showed a convenience store beneath falling snow.

A small girl standing outside holding hot chocolate.

Ten years old.

Pink gloves with strawberries stitched across the fingers.

Her breath caught.

No.

No way.

She picked the photo up slowly.

A second figure stood half-hidden near the ice machine.

Dark coat.

Dark hair.

Teenage boy.

Lucien.

The office door shut behind her.

Quietly.

Ivy spun so fast the photograph slipped from her hand.

Lucien stood near the doorway.

Black shirt.

Sleeves rolled slightly above his wrists.

No jacket today.

No tie.

Just those gray eyes fixed directly on her.

The room suddenly felt much smaller.

Neither of them spoke.

Lucien’s gaze dropped briefly toward the open file.

Then toward the photograph on the floor.

When he looked back at Ivy, something dangerous moved behind his expression.

Not anger.

Worse.

Exposure.

“You went into my office,” he said quietly.

Ivy swallowed once.

“You have files on my sister.”

“You weren’t supposed to see those.”

“That’s your defense?”

Lucien walked toward her slowly.

Every step calm.

Controlled.

Which somehow felt far more threatening than shouting would’ve.

Ivy stepped backward automatically.

The back of her legs hit the desk.

Fantastic.

Excellent positioning.

Lucien stopped directly in front of her.

Too close already.

“You were being watched for protection,” he said.

“That is an insane sentence.”

“Your father disappeared with dangerous money.”

“So you stalked us?”

His jaw tightened slightly.

“I monitored threats.”

“You photographed my apartment.”

“You were vulnerable.”

“I was existing!”

The words bounced sharply off the office walls.

Lucien remained still.

Only his eyes changed.

Watching her too carefully.

Like every movement mattered.

Ivy grabbed the photograph from the desk.

Her younger self smiled back at her beneath falling snow.

The hot chocolate cup looked tiny in mitten-covered hands.

Her voice came out quieter now.

“Why do you have this?”

Silence.

Lucien’s gaze lingered on the picture.

Then on her face.

“You remember that night,” Ivy said slowly.

Not a question.

Something flickered in his expression.

Gone fast.

“I remember everything,” he said.

The room went completely silent.

Ivy stared at him.

Snow drifted quietly outside the windows behind him. Somewhere downstairs, distant footsteps crossed marble floors.

But inside the office—

nothing moved.

Not even air.

“You were the boy outside the convenience store.”

Lucien said nothing.

“You kept this?”

Still silence.

Ivy laughed once softly, stunned.

“That’s… actually kind of crazy.”

Something sharpened behind his eyes instantly.

The atmosphere changed.

One wrong word away from dangerous.

Ivy noticed too late.

Lucien stepped closer.

Ivy’s breath caught automatically.

Close now.

Very close.

Close enough to see faint shadows beneath his eyes.

Close enough to smell cedarwood and smoke again.

Close enough that her pulse started acting embarrassing.

“You shouldn’t touch things in this room,” he said softly.

The softness made it worse.

Ivy lifted her chin slightly.

“Then maybe don’t keep creepy childhood surveillance photos in unlocked folders.”

His eyes narrowed.

“Unlocked?”

“You left the door open.”

“I didn’t.”

That made her pause.

Lucien’s gaze shifted briefly toward the office door.

Then back to her.

Interesting.

Very interesting.

Ivy suddenly became aware of the desk pressing against the backs of her legs.

Trapped.

Lucien planted one hand beside her against the desk edge.

Not touching her.

Cornering her anyway.

Her heartbeat stumbled.

“Lucien—”

“You aren’t afraid of me.”

The statement came low and steady.

Again.

Always that observation.

Ivy forced a breath.

“You keep bringing that up like it bothers you.”

His eyes held hers.

“It should.”

The tension in the room tightened sharply.

No jokes this time.

No Matteo nearby laughing into coffee.

Only the two of them standing too close in a silent office filled with secrets.

Ivy’s fingers tightened around the photograph.

“You followed me for twelve years?”

Lucien’s gaze dropped briefly to her mouth.

Fast.

Still there.

“Not constantly.”

“Oh, wow. Super comforting distinction.”

“You lived your life.”

“Apparently under surveillance.”

His jaw shifted once.

Then unexpectedly—

he reached toward her.

Ivy stopped breathing again.

Lucien’s fingers brushed lightly against the side of her hair.

One loose strand caught near her mouth.

He tucked it slowly behind her ear.

Cold fingers.

Gentle movement.

Far too intimate.

The touch lasted barely two seconds.

Still enough to send heat straight up her throat.

Lucien seemed to realize it too.

His hand paused briefly against her cheek.

Then dropped immediately.

The air between them turned heavier somehow.

Ivy looked up at him.

Lucien looked down at her like he was trying very hard not to do something reckless.

That realization hit all at once.

Hard.

Dangerous.

And for the first time since entering the mansion—

Ivy understood something terrifying.

Lucien Moretti wasn’t watching her like a hostage.

He was watching her like a man already losing control.