Thirteen Years of Obsession

Cute wedding gift

The silence after Isabella hung up felt thicker than the diamond necklace still cutting into my collarbone. I stayed exactly where Lucian had left me—sprawled across the black sheets in nothing but my wrecked lace panties, chest still heaving like I’d run up all seventy-eight floors of this damn tower. My thighs kept twitching. The ache between my legs hadn’t faded; if anything it had settled in deeper, stubborn and annoying as hell.

Thirteen years.

The number kept banging around in my head like a loose screw in a drawer.

From the study I heard his voice—low, clipped, the kind of tone that usually made people apologize before he even finished the sentence. Something shattered. Glass, probably. Then nothing. Just the low hum of the city far below.

My fingers brushed the edge of the sheet. Cool, slippery silk. Nothing like the cheap cotton blankets I’d grown up with that always smelled faintly of laundry soap and my mom’s cigarettes. Random thought, totally useless, but my brain wouldn’t shut up: the lawyer from earlier today had breath that smelled like burnt coffee and those cheap wintergreen mints. Why the hell was I remembering that now?

Footsteps.

Lucian filled the doorway, shirt still gone, pants hanging open at the waist. City lights carved hard shadows across his chest and shoulders. He didn’t look like the polished billionaire from the wedding photos anymore. He looked like a man who’d just watched his entire script catch fire.

He stopped at the foot of the bed. Dragged a hand through his hair, messing it up worse.

“You heard,” he said. Flat. Not really a question.

I pushed up on my elbows. My voice came out smaller than I wanted. “The whole world’s about to find out you’ve been obsessed with me since I was basically a kid. Cute wedding present, by the way.”

He didn’t deny it. Just let out a long breath through his nose and sat on the edge of the mattress. The bed dipped under his weight, bringing him close enough that I could smell him—warm skin, whiskey, and that dark cologne that still made my stomach flip even when I wanted to slap him.

“I never stalked you,” he said quietly. “I watched. Protected. Planned.”

“Same f*****g difference.”

He turned his head. Those gray eyes locked on mine. No smirk this time. Just exhaustion and something sharper underneath it—hunger that hadn’t cooled off even after the phone call and the fight.

“I was supposed to hate you,” he said. “Make you fall, then destroy you in front of your father. That was the whole point. Clean. Simple.”

I laughed. It came out shaky and bitter. “Well, phase one went great. I’m here. Married. Still wet from your fingers. Phase two looks like it’s exploding in your face, though.”

His hand moved before I could pull away—not grabbing, just resting on my bare knee. His thumb traced slow, absent circles. The touch burned anyway.

“It fell apart the first time you looked at me like you wanted to slap me and kiss me at the same time.” His voice dropped. “I kept telling myself it was still revenge. Kept adding clauses to the contract. Told Isabella it was all part of the plan. But the thought of coming home every night you’d be asleep in my bed… the plan started feeling smaller. You started feeling bigger.”

I swallowed hard. My body wanted to lean into that hand. My brain wanted to shove him off the bed and lock the door.

“So what now?” I asked. “The press has the photos. ‘Billionaire Stalker Bride’ is probably trending. My dad’s probably laughing his ass off in his cell. And I’m sitting here half-naked while you decide whether to finish what you started or pretend you’re sorry.”

His fingers tightened on my knee for a second, then relaxed. He looked away toward the windows. The thin scar through his left eyebrow caught the light.

“I’m not sorry for wanting you,” he said. “I’m sorry I let the revenge keep running long after I knew I was in love with you.”

Love.

The word dropped between us like a stone in still water. Ripples everywhere.

I opened my mouth. Closed it again. My chest felt too tight.

Before I could figure out what the hell to say, his phone lit up on the nightstand. Not Isabella this time—Marcus Vale, his best friend. Lucian ignored it.

Instead he leaned in until our foreheads almost touched. His breath smelled like the champagne from the reception.

“Tell me to stop,” he whispered. “Tell me to sleep on the couch. Tell me you hate me. I’ll listen tonight.”

My heart was hammering so loud I was sure he could hear it.

I didn’t say any of those things.

My hand came up on its own, fingers brushing the edge of that old scar above his eye. The skin there was slightly raised, rougher than the rest of him.

“I should hate you,” I breathed.

“You do,” he answered, lips curving—just a little. Not the usual cold smile. Something smaller. Almost sad. “But you want me anyway.”

He waited. Didn’t push. Didn’t growl or command or pin me down. For once he just… waited.

The phone stopped ringing. Then started again.

I closed the last inch and kissed him first.

It wasn’t pretty. It was messy and angry and desperate. My teeth caught his bottom lip. His hand slid into my hair, gripping tight as he kissed me back like a man who’d been holding his breath for years.

When we finally broke apart, both of us breathing hard, he rested his forehead against mine.

“Tomorrow the world burns,” he said quietly. “Tonight you’re still mine.”

I didn’t argue.

But as he pulled me down onto the sheets and settled between my thighs, one thought kept circling through the heat:

If this was obsession… how much worse was it going to get when the rest of the truth finally came out?