Getting bored and irritated by the itch in his ears from the noise, along with the exhaustion of the past three days and the alcohol he had consumed, Lucien had less patience to deal with the man. He had indulged him earlier out of boredom, but now, the game no longer amused him.
He stood up from his seat and, without sparing a glance, left the room with long strides. His back straight like a king who ruled the night, his suit clung to him like a magnet.
He headed to the garage and got into the back of his black luxury sedan—Maybach 680S.
Pressing his hands to his temples to ease the headache forming, he suddenly heard the driver—or rather, Zachary—speak.
"Where?"
"To the villa."
Lucien opened his eyes and looked at the owner of the voice.
"What are you doing here?" Lucien asked.
"You had a lot to drink, and I feared it would upset your stomach. So I asked the driver to step out so I could take you," Zachary explained.
Lucien stared daggers at him, then scoffed before looking away.
The drive was long—it took an hour and thirty minutes to reach Shawn Villa.
Soon, the car parked in the underground lot while Lucien headed for the front door of the villa.
The front door opened quietly with ease.
Lucien stepped inside, coat draped over his arm, movements calculated and quiet. His hand still pressed to his temple in an attempt to ease the pain. He checked the time—it was past twelve. The servants were definitely asleep by now. He needed hangover soup, or he risked having a fever at dawn .
The air inside smelled faintly of lavender and warm spices, soothing his mind a bit. Something had changed slightly.
He loosened the buttons on his shirt as he walked further in. The villa was still, but the chandelier was lit.
That's when he saw her.
At the far end of the dining table, her back slightly hunched as she ate slowly from a bowl, her other hand resting against her cheek in tired elegance. Her hair cascaded down her back in soft waves—a bit tangled, wild—but it made her look effortlessly beautiful, like something he hadn't seen in years. Maybe ever.
Ever since she woke up in Celestelle's body, sleep had become nearly impossible. And even when it came, it was riddled with nightmares—either hers or Celestelle's—and it was exhausting.
Celestelle had fallen asleep waiting for her supposed husband, thinking he might return, but was jolted awake by another nightmare. Now, sleep had left her completely. With nothing to do, she decided to make a bowl of noodles—anything to get her mind busy.
She had never been a good cook, and with the strange, modern appliances in the kitchen, it was even harder.
Eventually, she settled on a plate of fruit salad, already diced and kept in the fridge.
She was lost in thought when she heard the door open but didn't look up, assuming it was the butler checking on things. But then, the air shifted. The atmosphere changed. It grew heavier. Tense.
As someone who had led in battle and guided people, she could sense auras. It was one of the advantages she'd gained after the transmigration with Celestelle.
His steps halted.
For a full minute, Lucien Vale—who never spared anyone more than a passing glance—stood frozen. Staring. At her.
There was something about the way she sat there—unaware, unguarded, unknowingly striking. She wasn't painted in perfection. She didn't need to be. She was haunting, with eyes that probably held storms and lips that looked like they knew the taste of silence.
Celestelle looked up slowly, sensing the shift in the air.
Their eyes met.
His gaze held hers.
Unblinking. Heavy. Calculating. But something flickered beneath it—something he hadn't felt in years.
There were no emotions. But if one looked deep enough, there was nothing resembling calm either.
And her gaze?
It froze for a moment, then remained unfazed. Cold. A quiet storm brewing behind long lashes.
"You're staring. Are you falling in love with me already—for the first time you met your wife?" she said calmly, her voice smooth but sharp and sarcastic.
Lucien swore he noticed a hint of mockery in her tone, and even a light smirk playing at the corner of her lips.
Lucien was intrigued and amazed. What a bunny that dares, he thought.
For the first time in his life, someone dared to show him these emotions. He had been the prince of his family—the only successful heir, crafted and respected. He earned fear through strength. No man born of a woman had ever dared look him in the eye, not even behind his back.
And yet she hadn't cowered or looked timid. Instead, she challenged him.
This marriage wouldn't be boring, that was for sure.
Lucien wasn't fazed by her expression. For some reason, he looked forward to what she would do next. He wasn't even angry. He didn't feel his pride had been trampled upon.
"I expected to meet a fragile girl clinging to a name," he murmured. "Didn't think I'd come home to a ghost who looks like a goddess."
Celestelle raised a brow. "I thought I married a myth. Not a man."
He stepped closer, watching every subtle shift in her face, every breath she took. She didn't flinch.
"Do you always sit like that after midnight?" he asked, voice low.
"Do you always show up three days late after signing a marriage certificate?" Celestelle finally voiced her frustration.
Touché.
Lucien stood at the edge of the dining room, watching her slowly.
She went back to eating—slow, deliberate, indifferent.
But beneath the table, her fingers curled into her palm.
This man was dangerous. She could feel it in the way the room changed when he entered—the weight of him.
But she wasn't afraid.
She wasn't less
He studied her again—this time, less like a businessman and more like something else.
Something… human.
Curious.