Ivy avoided Lucien for exactly thirty-six hours.

Not intentionally at first.

Then very intentionally.

Breakfast became coffee upstairs.

Lunch became excuses.

Dinner became “I already ate,” which fooled absolutely nobody, including Marta, who stared at her over soup bowls with the exhausted expression of a woman witnessing emotional stupidity in real time.

Lucien stopped trying to corner her by the second day.

That somehow hurt worse.

No late-night conversations.

No chess games.

No soft hands against her back.

Only distance spreading quietly through the mansion like winter freezing pipes from the inside out.

Ivy hated it.

Which made her angrier.

Excellent emotional cycle.

By Thursday afternoon, rain hung gray against the city while Ivy escaped the mansion entirely under the excuse of needing “real coffee made by emotionally stable people.”

Marta handed her an umbrella and muttered:

“Be careful.”

Interesting phrasing.

Very interesting.

Saint & Finch Café smelled like cinnamon, espresso, and bad financial decisions.

Home.

Rosie nearly launched herself over the counter again when Ivy walked inside.

“There she is.”

“I was literally here three days ago.”

“And emotionally?” Rosie narrowed her eyes. “You look like somebody ran over your soul with a luxury vehicle.”

“That feels targeted.”

Marcus glanced up from the espresso machine.

“You okay?”

“No.”

“Love that honesty.”

Ivy collapsed dramatically into one of the booths near the windows while rain streaked outside.

Rosie slid into the opposite seat immediately.

“Okay. Talk.”

“No.”

“You slept with him.”

Silence.

Marcus dropped an entire spoon loudly somewhere behind the counter.

Traitor.

Ivy pointed aggressively.

“Why are both of you like this.”

Rosie gasped.

“Oh my God, you absolutely slept with him.”

Marcus slowly backed toward the kitchen.

“Respectfully,” he announced, “I no longer work here emotionally.”

The bell above the café door chimed softly.

Nobody looked up immediately.

Big mistake.

A familiar voice drifted smoothly across the café.

“Well. This explains the psychological distress.”

Ivy froze.

Rosie froze.

Marcus whispered:

“Oh no.”

Vincent Hale stood near the entrance removing rain from his coat sleeves calmly like federal prosecutors regularly materialized during emotional crises.

Which honestly tracked.

Hale noticed Ivy instantly.

Then the tension in her shoulders.

Then Rosie.

Then the untouched coffee.

His eyes sharpened almost invisibly.

Interesting.

Very interesting.

“Miss Bennett,” he said lightly.

Ivy groaned immediately.

“You are becoming a curse.”

“Occupational hazard.”

Rosie looked between them slowly.

“…Why does the federal government know my sister.”

“Long story,” Ivy muttered.

“Concerning story,” Hale corrected.

Before anybody could stop him, Hale approached the booth.

Rosie looked openly alarmed now.

“Should I legally leave?”

“Probably,” Ivy answered.

Hale smiled faintly.

“Relax. I’m off duty.”

“That sentence has never relaxed anybody in human history.”

Unexpectedly—

Hale laughed.

Real laugh.

Short.

Dangerous.

Interesting.

He slid smoothly into the empty seat beside Ivy before she could object.

Too close.

Everybody around Lucien Moretti had boundary issues apparently.

Hale loosened his tie slightly.

“You disappeared from the gala quickly.”

Ivy stared at him flatly.

“Your dance partner nearly declared war.”

“Lucien was overreacting.”

Hale looked deeply unconvinced.

“No,” he said quietly. “Actually, he wasn’t.”

The shift in his tone landed immediately.

Rosie noticed too.

Interesting.

Very interesting.

Ivy crossed her arms.

“You came here to threaten me legally?”

“No.”

“Tax me spiritually?”

“Tempting.”

Hale’s expression softened slightly afterward.

Then he looked directly at her.

“I came to warn you.”

The café noise faded strangely around the booth.

Rain tapped softly against the windows.

Rosie slowly sat straighter.

Ivy’s stomach tightened instinctively.

“…About what.”

Hale glanced toward Marcus behind the counter.

Then toward nearby customers.

Careful.

Measured.

Finally:

“You think Lucien Moretti is dangerous in obvious ways.”

Ivy frowned slightly.

“He smashed a whiskey glass into someone’s face.”

“Yes.” Hale leaned back slightly. “That part’s easy.”

The sentence landed cold.

Ivy stared at him.

“What’s that supposed to mean.”

Hale folded his hands loosely together.

“I’ve spent seven years investigating men like Lucien.”

“Okay.”

“And Lucien is the only one who scares other criminals.”

The room suddenly felt smaller.

Rosie looked deeply uncomfortable now.

Ivy tried laughing lightly.

Failed a little.

“That’s dramatic.”

“No.” Hale’s voice stayed calm. “What’s dramatic is how much restraint he’s shown since you arrived.”

Silence.

The words hit harder than expected.

Ivy looked away briefly toward rain streaking across the windows.

“He’s not…” She stopped. Tried again. “He’s not a monster.”

Hale watched her carefully.

“That’s exactly why you’re vulnerable.”

The answer came soft.

Almost kind.

Which somehow made it worse.

“He can be gentle with you,” Hale continued. “And still be dangerous everywhere else.”

Ivy’s chest tightened slightly.

The scars flashed through her memory.

The hot chocolate wrapper.

Lucien sleeping beside her with one arm wrapped tightly around her waist.

Then another memory crashed over it immediately—

blood on marble floors.

Violence beneath soft jazz music.

The contradiction suddenly hurt.

Hale noticed her expression change.

“There it is,” he murmured quietly.

Ivy looked back sharply.

“What.”

“The confusion.”

Rosie spoke carefully now.

“You really think Lucien would hurt her?”

Hale answered immediately.

“No.”

The certainty surprised all three of them.

Then Hale added quietly:

“I think he’d hurt everyone else.”

Silence.

Rain moved softly outside.

Marcus pretended not to listen from exactly eight feet away.

Failed horribly.

Ivy rubbed tiredly at her forehead.

“You don’t know him.”

Hale’s eyes softened slightly.

“No,” he said quietly. “You don’t.”

That landed harder than she wanted.

Because part of her already feared it was true.

Hale leaned slightly closer now.

“Do you know how many people disappeared after crossing Dante Russo?”

Ivy’s stomach twisted.

“No.”

“Lucien buried the men responsible in forty-eight hours.”

The café suddenly felt freezing.

Rosie whispered softly:

“…Jesus.”

Hale looked at Ivy carefully.

“He didn’t do that for power.” A pause. “He did it for revenge.”

The realization settled slowly through her chest.

Heavy.

Lucien never talked about those parts of himself.

Not really.

He showed her scars.

Music.

Softness.

But never the full truth.

Interesting.

Very interesting.

Hale reached into his coat slowly and slid a business card across the table.

“If you ever feel unsafe,” he said quietly, “call me first.”

Ivy stared down at the card.

Federal Prosecutor Vincent Hale.

Phone number beneath it.

The sight felt strangely disloyal.

Like betrayal folded into cardstock.

“I’m not afraid of Lucien,” she whispered.

Hale studied her for one long second.

Then softly:

“That’s exactly what worries me.”

He stood afterward before either woman answered.

Straightened his coat.

And paused beside the booth.

“One more thing.”

Ivy looked up slowly.

Hale’s expression had lost all amusement now.

“All powerful men eventually choose what matters most to them.” His gaze sharpened slightly. “Pray you survive being chosen.”

Then he walked out into the rain.

The café bell chimed softly behind him.

Silence settled heavily afterward.

Rosie looked at the business card.

Then at Ivy.

“…Okay. That man is terrifying.”

Ivy didn’t answer.

Her chest felt too tight suddenly.

Not fear.

Something worse.

Doubt.

—

That night, long after the mansion fell asleep, Ivy stood barefoot outside Lucien’s office door staring at the faint light beneath it.

No movement inside.

No voices.

Only silence.

The handle turned quietly beneath her fingers.

Unlocked.

Interesting.

Very interesting.

Ivy stepped inside slowly.

Lucien’s office smelled like cedarwood, whiskey, and exhaustion.

The desk lamp still glowed softly near stacks of documents while rain whispered against the windows behind the shelves.

No Lucien.

Probably another meeting.

Probably another lie.

The thought hurt unexpectedly.

Ivy crossed toward the desk slowly.

Then stopped.

Files.

Stacks of them.

Names.

Photos.

Surveillance reports.

And near the center—

a folder labeled BENNETT.

Her stomach dropped instantly.

The room suddenly felt colder.

Slowly—

carefully—

Ivy reached toward the file and opened it.