Ken stood up abruptly, his mind reeling as he tried to find his footing. His legs felt like lead, shaking uncontrollably, and the world began to tilt. He lost his balance, falling backward, but he didn't hit the muddy ground.
Two strong arms caught him by the waist. Hades held him firmly, his presence cold and steady against Ken's feverish skin. Ken's eyes rolled back as the exhaustion of the heartbreak and the cold rain finally claimed him. The world went dark.
When Ken woke up, it was to a pounding headache and a damp, cool towel resting on his forehead. He groaned, slowly sitting up as he tried to make sense of his surroundings.
His eyes struggled to adjust to the aesthetics of the room. He was drowning in black velvet—a duvet so heavy and impossibly soft it felt like being held by a living thing. He lay on a massive mattress padded with black silk damask, a fabric so fine it felt like oil against his skin. A thick, velvety-red glow saturated the space, filtering from unseen sources like the heartbeat of a sleeping machine. It wasn't the warm flicker of a candle; it was a cool, saturated light that turned the room into a deep, crimson vault.
Everything screamed wealth, but not in a way that sought approval. It was dominant. Prominent. Ever-present.
Ken rubbed his forehead, trying to clear the fog. Was it Mikael? Did he come back for me? But then, the memories of the rain and the black umbrella flooded back.
"Wait... it was Lucien," he muttered to the silent room.
Just then, the door clicked open. Lucien stood there, his usual suit layers gone. He wore simple black trousers and a black fitted button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up. He was carrying a steaming bowl of soup.
Ken found himself speechless. Without the heavy coats, Lucien looked... powerful. His body looked as though it had been sculpted by a god—ripped and lean in a way that felt dangerous.
What is he doing? What is the plan here? Ken wondered as Lucien approached the bed.
Lucien set a tray containing hot chicken noodle soup and a glass of fresh orange juice on the bedside table. He had prepared it himself—a task he hadn't performed for a mortal in centuries.
Ken looked at the tray in disbelief. This was the same guy who had spent weeks ignoring him or giving him cold, unreadable stares. Now, he was acting like a caretaker.
Lucien reached into a side locker and pulled out Ken's phone, handing it over. "You dropped it last night. I had it checked; the internal components weren't damaged by the fall or the rain."
Ken turned the screen on. The digital clock glared back at him. "It's 1:00 PM! I'm late for work!"
He tried to scramble out of the bed, but Lucien's hand was on his shoulder, firm but surprisingly gentle. "It's fine. You should check your messages."
Ken opened his inbox. There was a message from Delvon, his boss at the club.
Delvon: On account of your heartbreak, you are given a one-week paid leave. Do take your much-needed rest and have a good day.
Ken blinked. It was considerate, but it didn't sound like Delvon at all. He looked up at Lucien, knowing instinctively that those "divine" hands had been at work, even if he couldn't prove it.
"Thank you... for everything," Ken whispered.
"It's fine," Lucien replied, his face a mask of calm. "Get some rest. Do whatever suits you; I have no problem with it." He headed for the door but paused at the threshold. "If you aren't comfortable with the light, I can change it."
"A white light would be much better... and also," Ken hesitated, "won't your parents have a problem with me being here?"
"Don't worry," Lucien said, his voice dropping an octave. "They are... away for the next week." He tapped a panel on the wall, and the room shifted from crimson to a soft, clean white. Then, he shut the door.
Ken turned his attention to the soup. He took a sip and froze. It was perfect. Is he a chef? I thought rich people didn't even know where the kitchen was. He ate hungrily, his body desperate for the nutrients. As he reached for his phone to message Amy and Laura, he realized something that made his face flush deep red. He wasn't wearing his white T-shirt and jeans anymore. He was in a soft, oversized yellow sweater.
He lifted the duvet with trembling hands, checking beneath the hem. To his immense relief, his underwear remained.
He had to undress me... Ken thought, falling back against the pillows. He saw me like that. I know I was drenched, but... god, this is embarrassing.
He tried to distract himself by checking his messages. Amy had sent a link to an Italian recipe: Lasagna alla Bolognese.
Amy: Saw this and thought of you! We should try making it when you're feeling better.
Ken smiled, looking at the vibrant colors of the dish in the video. He tried to pronounce the ingredients under his breath. "Bé...cha...mel Sauce?"
The rhythmic sound of the cooking video eventually lulled him back into a heavy, dreamless sleep—or so he hoped.
But the slumber was short-lived. A nightmare clawed its way into his mind. He saw Mikael and Emily at an altar. Mikael was in a sharp suit, Emily in a cascading white gown. They kissed as a crowd roared with approval. Ken stood at the back, a ghost at the feast.
Then, Emily pointed at him. She laughed, calling him a "freak." The crowd joined in. Sara Newman, Laura, Amy... even his mother. They circled him, shouting names: Abomination. Disgrace. Disgusting.
"I didn't create myself!" Ken screamed in the dream, falling to his knees as the laughter grew deafening. "I didn't create myself!"
He woke up with a shriek, tears streaming down his face. He grabbed the person standing over him, clinging to them like a life raft, sobbing the same words over and over. "I didn't create myself!"
"No, you didn't," a low, resonant voice muttered. "And you are perfect exactly as you are."
The words acted like a splash of cold water. Ken looked up to see Lucien standing over him. Lucien's expression was unreadable, but he leaned down to Ken's level. Using his hands—which were covered in soft, black leather gloves—he gently wiped the tears from Ken's cheeks.
"You are perfect," Lucien repeated, his gaze intense. "Don't let anyone tell you anything different."
Ken pulled back slowly, his heart hammering. Yet again, Lucien was there at the exact moment his psyche fractured.
Lucien stood up, handing him a fresh pair of clothes and a plush towel. "You should bathe. Dinner will be ready in five minutes."
He turned and left without another word. Ken sat there, breathless. He didn't know how to feel. He was in a stranger's house, a man who was dangerously mysterious, yet he felt safer here than he had in weeks.
He eventually found the courage to head to the bathroom. It was as large as a studio apartment and carved entirely from solid black marble with thin white veins like cracks in ice. In the center sat a freestanding tub carved from matte-black stone. Instead of silver taps, the water flowed from a hidden slot in the wall, falling like a silent, red-lit waterfall into the basin. The air smelled of cold rain and expensive soap.
What was I expecting from a guy who only loves black? Ken thought, undressing for the bath.
A few minutes later, Ken walked downstairs, dressed in the soft nightwear Lucien had provided. His steps were slow as he took in the sheer scale of the apartment. Every piece of furniture, every shadow, felt meticulously placed.
He arrived at the dining table. It was set with mathematical precision. But it was the dish in the center that made Ken stop in his tracks.
Exactly like the one in the video he had watched for only a few minutes before falling asleep.
It was Lasagna alla Bolognese.