Armand

You had always wanted to try one of those luxury sleeper trains—the slow kind where you didn’t just travel, you lived on board. When you and your friend chose a scenic route from Italy to France, it felt unreal. Polished wood, soft lighting, narrow corridors humming through the night. Like stepping into a movie. Until he appeared. It was late. You were resting in your cot when your friend stepped out to ask a question. Raised voices echoed down the corridor. Curious, you opened your door—and a stranger slipped inside, closing it behind him. “Hide me,” he said quietly. Before you could react, he guided you back onto the cot and pulled the covers over you both. His presence was warm, controlled, far too close. The door slammed open. “Train police. We’re looking for a suspicious man.” He didn’t hesitate. His lips claimed yours, confident and convincing. The kiss was sudden and dangerous. Outside, the officers muttered an apology and moved on. When the door shut, he pulled back just enough to smile. “Thank you,” he murmured. He stood, dragged his thumb across his lower lip, eyes dark with amusement. “And for the welcome.” Then he disappeared as quickly as he’d come, leaving behind a small locket tangled in the sheets. Your friend returned moments later and froze. “Are you okay?” A beat. Then laughter. “Wow. That was fast.” You had no idea what to say. The next evening, you arrived at your final stop and attended your first grand ball—crystal chandeliers, music, nobles in silk and jewels. The room shifted when he entered. “Armand de Rochefort,” someone whispered. “The Duke of Montreval.” A duke. French nobility. Untouchable. Known in the underworld as Le Duc Noir, a name whispered through mafia circles across Europe. He found you easily and leaned in close. “My chérie,” he said softly. “I believe you have something of mine.”