Chapter 1: The Calm Before the Storm
Sunlight danced across the floorboards of the Brooklyn bookstore café, casting golden warmth through the wide front windows. The air smelled of vanilla, ink, and springtime. Somewhere in the back, a coffee grinder hummed its steady rhythm.
Elara Leontis—formerly Elara Quinn—sat behind the register with one hand on her growing belly and the other resting on a half-finished cup of tea. Her fingers traced lazy circles on the mug, eyes drifting between customers and the thick novel on the counter.
It had been five months since the takedown of the Leontis empire. Five months since her contract marriage with Lucien became real—raw, tangled, messy, but filled with love. Five months of rebuilding their lives from scorched foundations.
And now, she was here.
Married. At peace. And pregnant with the child of the man who once terrified her.
"Miss me?"
Lucien's voice always slid into her chest like honey and steel. He stood in the doorway, suit immaculate, sleeves rolled up, hair windswept from the spring breeze. He held a small brown paper bag in one hand and a bouquet of lavender and hydrangeas in the other.
"Only every time I breathe," Elara said with a soft grin.
He walked in, kissed her forehead, and handed her the flowers. "Lavender to calm your nerves. Hydrangeas for gratitude." He eyed the tea. "And chamomile, because I know caffeine makes our little one kick you like a ninja."
She smirked. "You spoil us."
"That's the point."
They sat together in the window nook, the café quiet for once. No paparazzi. No lawyers. No blackmail. Just coffee, conversation, and peace.
Lucien pulled out his tablet and opened the designs for a new nonprofit he was building—one dedicated to helping whistleblowers and investigative journalists. Redemption through legacy, he called it.
"I want our daughter to grow up proud of her last name," he said.
Elara nodded slowly. "She will."
The moment stretched comfortably between them—until Elara's phone buzzed.
She frowned.
A Parisian number.
Lucien noticed her expression shift. "Something wrong?"
"No," she said too quickly. "Just a spam call."
But her hand trembled as she silenced the screen.
Unknown Number (France):
"Mlle Delacroix, your inheritance awaits. Time is running out."
She tucked the phone away and smiled at Lucien, her voice steady despite the sudden knot in her chest.
"Let's just… enjoy today."
But outside, the wind picked up. The sky darkened, ever so slightly.
And far across the ocean, a sleeping legacy stirred—one that would not stay buried.
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