The mansion stirred early.
Sunlight streamed through the sheer drapes of the guest room Elara had fallen asleep in, wrapped in one of Lucian's oversized robes. She woke with a yawn, rubbing her temple. A mild headache throbbed behind her eyes—too much wine, too much tension.
Downstairs, Lucian's head butler, Derrick, moved like clockwork through the morning routine. His tablet beeped softly as he checked updates from the night staff. The chef was already prepping Elara's lactose-free yogurt parfait with fresh berries—Lucian had added her food preferences to the master schedule just last night.
"Have a glass of lime water and painkillers sent up," Lucian instructed his secretary, Mara, in a low, focused tone. He stood by the large kitchen island, dressed in a charcoal grey suit, sipping his black coffee.
"Also," he added, "make sure her bedroom is shifted to the east wing by tonight. The sunrise is better there. And assign two house staff to her floor—but discreet ones. She likes space."
"Yes, sir."
Mara never asked questions, but the way Lucian's mind worked always startled her. He didn't show affection in grand declarations. He protected. He arranged. He ensured everything Elara could possibly need was done before she asked.
Meanwhile, Elara stretched in bed, her phone buzzing beside her.
Tara: Elara. WHAT THE HELL? Are you MARRIED?
Jess: Girl. Stop ignoring me. Social media is blowing up. Was that Lucian King???
She groaned, resting her forehead against her pillow. "Oh God," she whispered.
She stepped into the ensuite bathroom, ran cold water on her face, then stared at her reflection. The woman looking back was still her—sharp cheekbones, dark coiled hair that was now a tousled mess, eyes too honest—but something had shifted. This wasn't just about survival anymore. She was someone's wife…even if it was all for show.
Downstairs, she wandered into the glass-walled breakfast room, barefoot, wearing soft loungewear. Lucian looked up from his laptop.
"I had the chef prepare something mild. You look… like you drank a bottle on your own."
"I feel like I was the bottle," she muttered, sliding into the seat.
He chuckled—actual chuckled—and passed her the lime water.
But peace doesn't last.
Not when ghosts scratch at the door.
The clacking of stilettos echoed before the security at the main entrance could even stop her. A woman in a sleek, skin-tight navy dress barged into the room, her manicured hands trembling with rage.
"Elara, I assume," she spat, eyes like daggers.
Lucian's expression shifted instantly—from calm to lethal.
"Camilla." His tone was ice.
"Oh, you remember my name now?" she sneered, ignoring the stunned staff. "I leave for six months, and suddenly you're married?"
Elara's fork froze mid-air.
Lucian stood, walking over like a shadow gliding into place. "You shouldn't be here."
"I gave you my heart," Camilla shouted. "You think I believe this marriage nonsense? You think I don't know you?"
Elara stood now too, not afraid, just... tired. "Ma'am, this is not how adults handle closure."
Camilla blinked. "Closure? I'm not here for closure. I'm here to remind him what he's throwing away!"
"I already did," Lucian said coldly. "The moment you thought your body entitled you to my life."
Camilla's expression cracked. "You're cold, Lucian. You're cruel."
Lucian didn't flinch. "And you're trespassing. Derrick, escort her out."
The butler nodded, already calling security. Camilla screamed his name one more time, mascara smudged with emotion as she was led out. A painful silence followed.
Lucian turned to Elara.
"I'm sorry."
She shook her head slowly. "That was... something. Does that happen often?"
"Less now," he said, adjusting his cufflinks. "But the past finds ways to haunt the present."
Elara went quiet.
Later that day, he had a board meeting downtown. She sat in the back of his office, sipping tea, watching him move like a man who built empires with silence. Everything from how he held his coffee to the way he leaned in to listen to his associates spoke of power earned—not given.
And yet, between calls and contracts, his eyes would flick to her. Just for a second. As if checking in. As if reminding her: you're not alone in this.
Absolutely—this continuation brings a layered emotional pull and lets readers experience both the softening of Lucian and Elara's complex adaptation to their public marriage life. Here's the continuation of Chapter 6, weaving in the girls' meetup, Lucian's quiet surveillance, and that warm, slow-burning romantic tension building like a proper billionaire drama:
---
By noon, Elara's phone buzzed again. This time, not from concerned best friends but from a group chat they'd all left dormant for weeks.
Tara: Lunch at Oréla? You owe us tea, Mrs. Billionaire.
Jess: Please wear sunglasses. The paparazzi cannot steal your glow.
Zara: You're not escaping this, El. 2 PM. Wear something scandalous.
Elara smiled softly, fingers tapping away a casual "fine, fine" before she glanced up to find Mara, Lucian's secretary, hovering politely.
"Mr. King said you have full access to the Bentley if you need to step out, ma'am. Would you like security to accompany you?"
She blinked. "Is that really necessary?"
"Mr. King has instructed that you not go anywhere without protection."
Elara exhaled. It wasn't overbearing, somehow. More like... preparation.
"I'll take the car. I'll let you know if I need the security."
Except—Lucian didn't take chances.
---
By 2:06 PM, the sleek black Bentley curved into the private parking of Oréla, a luxury restaurant with views of the bay and iced gold interior décor. Elara stepped out in her soft brown co-ord and sleek ponytail, sunglasses perched confidently on her face.
Inside, her girls already had drinks on the table. Jess screamed when she walked in.
"Finally! The royal highness appears!"
Tara yanked out her chair. "You better start talking. Was this a secret wedding? Or a business deal disguised with satin ribbons?"
Zara sipped her martini. "Is he good to you though?"
Elara paused, exhaled, and smiled.
"He's... surprising."
"Oh?"
Jess leaned in.
"He listens. Every little thing I mention? He acts on it like I'm some walking executive order. I told him I liked mango gelato and guess what was stocked the next day in the freezer?"
"Girl," Tara whispered.
"And when I woke up with a headache this morning, painkillers and water were already by the bed. I didn't even ask."
Zara raised a brow, skeptical but intrigued. "So he's soft?"
"No. That's the strange part." Elara sipped her water. "He's commanding, serious. But he's always five steps ahead. Like... he cares but doesn't know how to say it. So he just does things."
The girls fell quiet.
Jess grinned. "So what you're saying is, you accidentally landed in an enemies-to-lovers trope."
Tara burst out laughing. "Or fake-marriage-to-real-feelings."
They giggled, eating slowly as servers brought out grilled sea bass and fresh basil risotto.
But somewhere behind her, three tables away, sat a man in an all-black suit, quietly sipping whiskey.
Lucian.
From behind tinted sunglasses, he studied her every movement. His friend and occasional legal counsel, Reed, leaned in.
"You know, stalking your wife isn't exactly normal. Even if you do own the building."
Lucian didn't respond.
Instead, his gaze dropped when she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. When she laughed too hard and clutched her chest. When she spoke with glowing, firm conviction about him.
He hadn't expected her to defend him. Or praise him. Especially not when no one was watching.
She doesn't even know I'm here, he realized.
But there she was, talking about him like he mattered.
His chest tightened strangely.
"She's blending in fine," Reed commented. "Don't look so shocked."
"She's adapting," Lucian murmured. "Fast."
"You're falling."
Lucian finally looked at Reed. "It's a contract."
"Yeah. But you're sitting here with me when you should be in a meeting."
Lucian said nothing.
From across the restaurant, Elara turned for a second as if sensing eyes on her. Lucian dropped his gaze to his glass.
---
Outside, the girls hugged her one by one and piled into their cabs. Elara walked to the waiting Bentley, and only when she sat inside did she glance at the restaurant windows.
She didn't see him.
But somehow... she felt him.
Back at the mansion that evening, a box waited on her side of the bed. Inside—an elegant gold-plated card with two simple words in his handwriting:
"I see you."
Her lips parted slightly.
And though she said nothing, her heart skipped a beat.