'Wait... was he watching me?'
The thought echoed in the hollows of Ken's mind as he walked toward the dining table and took his seat. The movements were mechanical, his body still feeling a ghostly weight from the trauma of the previous night. He looked at the perfectly arranged place setting, then back toward the corridor leading to the bedroom.
'Are there cameras in the room? How could he have known?' His mind kept racing through a thousand assumptions, each more paranoid than the last. He thought of the phone, the recipe Amy had sent, and the uncanny timing of the meal.
Finally, he couldn't hold it in. "Lucien?..."
Lucien, who had already picked up a silver fork and a small, razor-sharp knife, looked upward. His gaze was steady, piercing through the soft white light of the dining room. "Is there a problem?"
Ken paused for a brief moment, searching for a way to phrase the question without sounding ungrateful or like a conspiracy theorist. He cleared his throat. "Could I ask what the occasion is? I mean... why did you choose an Italian dish? Specifically, this one?"
"Well, I believe that's what you wanted," Lucien replied casually, his tone as cool as the marble beneath them. "I saw you browsing the internet for it. I assumed you wanted it. Do you not like it?"
"Emm.. I... I don't... but you didn't have to go through all that stress for me," Ken stammered, his face heating up. It wasn't just the invasion of privacy—it was the fact that Lucien had seen a fleeting whim and turned it into a reality.
"Who said it was stressful?" Lucien countered, his expression remaining an unreadable mask of indifference.
"Huh... oh. Okay. Thanks," Ken muttered, feeling small beneath that gaze. He picked up his fork and knife, carefully cutting into the layers of the lasagna. As the first bite hit his tongue, his eyes widened. The flavor was explosive—rich, authentic, and perfectly balanced. The béchamel was velvety, the ragù possessed a depth that suggested hours of simmering, and the pasta was exactly al dente. Every detail had been executed with mathematical precision.
"Wow... your chef cooks so well. It's perfect," Ken whispered, taking another hurried bite.
"I don't have a chef," Lucien replied almost instantly.
Ken froze, the fork halfway to his mouth. Lucien was wealthy enough to hire a brigade of the best chefs in the country, or perhaps fly in a Michelin-starred master from Italy just for a weekend brunch. Yet he claimed to have no one.
'Is it his mother?' Ken thought, but he immediately disregarded the idea. Lucien had stated his parents were out for the week. No staff had been seen. No maids, no butlers. Just the two of them in this sprawling, obsidian silence.
"...Wait. You're the chef?" Ken asked, his voice rising in genuine surprise. To Ken, Lucien looked like a man who had never seen the four walls of a kitchen, let alone prepared a complex meal from scratch. Lucien looked like a man who commanded, not a man who labored.
Yet, the meal was undeniable.
"I have learned every survival skill necessary," Lucien said, his voice dropping into a philosophical register. "Just because one is wealthy does not mean they should be incompetent. Wealth will not always save you. Perfection in all areas of life is not an option; it is a necessity."
Ken stared at him. Lucien was a perfectionist in the most literal sense of the word. It was either done right or it was not done at all. Looking around the apartment—the clinical order, the lack of a single stray dust mote—Ken realized he knew nothing about the true wealthy. He had assumed they were soft. Lucien was anything but soft. He was a blade wrapped in silk.
Lucien, meanwhile, began eating with an absolute, terrifying neatness. As the personification of Death, he required no sustenance, no hydration, and no rest. But he was a master of mimicry. He moved with the grace of a predator pretending to be a socialite.
'Does that mean he learned fighting and weaponry too? Wait... why is that even necessary to me?' Ken thought, shaking his head. 'I am overthinking at this point. I just need to eat and stop pondering about nonsense.'
They finished the meal in a silence broken only by the rhythmic clicking of silver against fine china. Shortly after, Ken retreated to the bedroom—Lucien's bedroom—and collapsed back into the heavy velvet duvet. He reached for his phone, and his heart skipped a beat.
A barrage of notifications from Amy flooded his screen. He had missed nearly a dozen calls.
Amy:Hey Ken, you didn't show up today. Are you good?
Amy:Ken, why aren't you answering me? The manager said you took a week off... is everything okay?
Amy:Hey, answer me!
Amy:If you don't answer me, I'll come to your house now.
Amy:...Still not answering me. I'm on my way.
Amy:Hey Ken! Where are you? I am at your apartment and you're not here.
Amy:If you don't pick up, I'll call the police.
Amy:...Wait, are you with Mikael?
That last message, sent only two minutes ago, felt like a hot iron against his skin. He knew Amy. She was loyal, fierce, and currently on the warpath. If he didn't reply now, she would likely track down Mikael's address and start a scene that neither of them was prepared for.
He took a deep breath, his thumbs trembling over the keyboard.
Ken:We broke up.
The typing indicator appeared immediately. It lasted for over a minute. Ken stared at the three bouncing dots, wondering what kind of explosion was coming. Then, the message popped up.
Amy:Why?
'That's it?' Ken mused. He knew her well enough to know she had likely typed three paragraphs of rage and then deleted them all, settling for the most direct question possible.
As he was about to type his reply, another message flashed:
Amy:...more importantly, where are you?
Ken went cold. How was he supposed to explain this? How could he tell her he was sleeping in the bed of the most mysterious man in school only twenty-four hours after being dumped? It sounded cheap. It sounded reckless. But the truth was all he had.
Ken:For the 'why'—he said he tried to love me, but I was just filling the gap his first love left. I was a replacement. He didn't love me; I was a placeholder for his first love. When she came back, he ran to her. He left me in the rain last night.
The phone didn't even have time to show a typing indicator before Amy's response blasted through.
Amy:HIS FIRST LOVE? DO YOU MEAN EMILY!!!
Ken:Yes... she was his first love.
In her cab on the way home, Amy let out a scream of pure fury. The driver jumped, looking at her through the rearview mirror with wide, worried eyes. She raised a hand in a silent apology and typed back with frantic speed.
Amy:That's unexpected. WAIT! He left you in the rain last night? Are you at the hospital? Did you catch a fever?
Amy:Ken, where are you? Don't tell me you're at your apartment, I'm just coming from there and you're not home.
Ken closed his eyes, exhaling slowly before typing the final revelation.
Ken:...at Lucien's apartment.
Amy screamed again. This time the driver pulled over slightly. "Miss, are you okay?"
"I'm fine!" she shouted, holding her head in her hands. How? How did he end up there of all places?
Amy:How? How did you end up at Lucien's a day after your breakup, Ken! How?
Ken:Mikael left and the rain started. My feet wouldn't move. I sat under a tree trying to catch my breath, and then the rain stopped falling—just around me. I looked up, and Lucien was standing there with an umbrella. I tried to stand up but I fainted. I woke up here.
Amy stared at her phone, her mouth hanging open. It sounded like a scene from a dark romance novel. It was too dramatic, too chaotic to be real life, and yet, knowing Ken, it was exactly what would happen.
Amy:I need details. Should I visit tomorrow or will you come see me? I need to know everything, word for word.
Ken:I'll come over tomorrow evening after you're done at the restaurant.
She sent a quick 'alright' back. Ken turned off his screen, feeling a strange mix of relief and exhaustion. But the peace was short-lived. The bedroom door opened.
Lucien walked in. He had a thick black towel draped over his shoulder, still wearing the black trousers and shirt from before. Ken sat up, his heart picking up speed.
"What are you doing?"
Lucien didn't stop. He walked toward the obsidian bathroom attached to the bedroom. "I find this bathroom more soothing. I intend to take a shower here."
Ken froze. "But... surely you have others?"
"I do," Lucien said, his voice echoing slightly as he entered the marble space. "But I prefer this one."
Ken felt a surge of heat in his cheeks. Is he serious? Or is he trying to make me uncomfortable? He scrambled for his phone, opening a game to distract himself from the sound of the hidden waterfall shower starting in the next room. He tried to focus on the screen, but his ears were tuned to the silence of the apartment.
After what felt like an eternity, the water stopped. A few minutes later, Lucien emerged.
He had changed. His hair was damp, dark strands clinging to his forehead, and the button-down shirt was gone. He stood at the edge of the bathroom door, the light catching the sharp lines of his jaw and the sheer power of his frame.
Ken's breath caught in his throat. His body momentarily paralyzed as his brain struggled to process the sight.
'He is... he's... he's...'