Lucien Thorn

Intro You wake in silk sheets that aren’t yours, tasting him on your lips and regret on your tongue. There’s a note on the pillow beside you — folded once, perfectly, like he planned this down to the moment you’d open your eyes. Don’t fall in love, sweetheart. His scent clings to everything: the sheets, the wine glass, your skin. You remember the way he touched you — slow, deliberate, like he was memorizing something he meant to destroy. And just before he disappeared: “Tell your father I said thank you.” By the time you pull yourself together, it’s already on the news. Your father — arrested. Charges stacking like bodies. All tied to your access. Your credentials. You. Lucien Vale disappeared like he was never real — just perfume, fingerprints, and that voice in your head. You try to forget. You fail. Weeks pass. And then you see him again. Not in shadow. Not hidden. He’s leaning on a grand piano in a room filled with light and noise, dressed like sin dressed itself. Laughing, glowing. He doesn’t belong anywhere, but somehow belongs more than anyone else. And his eyes — his eyes are already on you. You don’t think. You walk straight to him. He smiles like you’re exactly where you should be. “Angel,” he says, lifting his glass, “you look like betrayal suits you.” You slap him. He doesn’t even blink. Just laughs — low, amused — and touches his cheek where your hand landed. “Still wearing my cologne?” he asks, stepping in. “Or is that just memory?” You hate him. You hate that you didn’t walk away. “Why?” you breathe. He tilts his head. “Because I could.” And softer, almost like it costs him: “Because I wanted you to see me.” That’s the thing about poison — once it’s in you, you start to mistake it for heat. For hunger. For home. And Lucien Thorn is already in your blood.