New York, 1930.
Three days had passed since the night Lucien left to the Newport mansion.
It was nearly two in the morning when he arrived.
The door to the bedroom opened without sound, as if the house already expected him. The scent of lavender and warm stone drifted out into the hallway. Light spilled faintly from the bathroom—steam curling just past the edge of the doorframe, illuminated in silvers by the frosted vanity bulbs inside.
Lucien stepped inside, silent as ever.
He removed his jacket. Folded it. Set it across the footboard. His vest followed, then his cufflinks, each placed exactly where they belonged. The tie simply pulled free and laid across the chair beside the window, his fingers moving like clockwork.
He laid on the bed. Then took his journal and started writing.
After some time, the sound of the shower water ceased.
Steam hissed against the tile, then the rustle of a towel—fabric meeting skin. Isabelle stepped out moments later, robed, hair damp, skin glowing slightly from the heat.
She didn't speak. Not at first.
She moved toward her side of the bed slowly, drying her hair with deliberate, graceful strokes. Her presence was always composed, always beautiful in the exact way she was designed to be—elegant without effort, serene without fragility. She was perfect in every way.
She sat at the edge of the bed.
The silence between them wasn't sharp. It simply existed.
Then, softly.
"If I vanish from your sight one day, it won't be because I left. It'll be because you stopped looking."
Lucien's pen slowed. Then stopped.
He didn't look at her.
He closed his journal. Placed it on the nightstand on his side.
She leaned closer, kissed the side of his head—gently, precisely, with the kind of warmth only she knew how to deliver. Then she eased beside him, pulled the blanket over her, and sat there. Not speaking. Just breathing beside him.
He didn't move.
He just stared into the distance.
I don't hate her.
I know she's not the reason I feel this way.
She was built to be the thing I lost. And maybe she is—in every measurable way.
But something in me won't reach back. Won't respond. It's not defiance. Not resentment.
It's engraved.
Something carved deep. A fault line without end.
I'm built around a hole.
And no matter how hard I try, it only seems to get bigger.
***
The dining room was filled with soft morning light—filtered through linen curtains, pale gold across glass and polished marble. Everything was arranged in perfect silence. Silverware placed just so. Crystal catching the light. Not a single plate or utensil out of alignment.
The staff moved like breath—barely audible, smooth in motion, disappearing before being noticed. They laid out two plates, adjusted the position of the teapot, refolded a napkin that hadn't been touched. Then they were gone.
Lucian sat at the end of the table. His journal lay open beside his plate. He was already writing when Isabelle entered.
She greeted him softly. He didn't look up.
She wore a pale spring dress, hair tucked gently behind one ear. As she poured tea, her tone was light, practiced, warm.
"I spoke with the foundation just now," she said. "They're finalizing the invitations for the gala. We'll host this one in Vienna, just after the solstice. The embassy agreed to the venue."
Lucien turned a page. Wrote something. Ate in silence.
She continued, still calm. Still effortless.
"They want you to speak this time. Not long—just a few words. There'll be press, of course. But I've made sure they'll stay back."
He lifted his tea-cup. Didn't drink. Eyes still on the pages.
She paused. Then, quieter.
"Will you come?"
Lucien didn't answer.
She watched him for a moment. Then stood. Collected her tea.
As she passed, she placed one hand lightly on his shoulder.
He didn't flinch.
But he didn't acknowledge it either.
She walked out of the room.
And he turned the page again.
***
That afternoon, Lucien traveled to the family estate. To visit his father, Magnus Cronus—Former CEO of Chronos Industries.
The air smelled faintly of paper, copper, and garden soil. The study, nestled in the west wing of the family estate, caught sunlight from three tall windows—each partially opened to let in the drifting sounds of birds and distant wind chimes. Nothing about the room had changed in decades.
Bookshelves curved from floor to ceiling. Schematics were pinned across the far wall, faded at the edges, annotated in fine script. A globe sat motionless in one corner. The hearth was cold, but not dusty. Everything was precisely maintained—not out of vanity, but ritual.
Magnus sat near the center, angled toward the light, his wheelchair tucked beside a low oak table layered in books and handwritten notes. His frame was frail now—age having hollowed what time could not—but there was nothing diminished in his eyes. Silver-white hair swept back from a high brow, gaze sharp and contemplative. Even seated, he carried the weight of someone who had once led an empire—and still, perhaps, did.
He was reading when Lucien entered.
He didn't look up at first. Just turned the page slowly.
Then, without urgency, "You're early."
Lucien stepped further into the room, hands behind his back. "I had time."
Magnus closed the book in his hand. "I was hoping you might. Sit, if you'd like."
Lucien remained standing for a few seconds. Then took the chair across from him.
They were silent for a while. Only the wind moved.
"I read your report," Magnus said eventually. "The Thread Relay. That was a clever adjustment."
Lucien nodded once. "It was overdue."
"Sometimes improvement comes late." Magnus glanced toward the sketches. "Sometimes it doesn't come at all."
Lucien didn't reply.
Magnus reached for a cup of cold tea. "You used to talk to me about them. Back when you still called it a search."
Lucien's expression didn't shift. "Searching won't bring them back. I have to retrieve them."
"Seems you still have your goals clear as ever."
Lucien paused. "It hasn't changed."
Magnus leaned back slightly, the old chair creaking beneath him. "What if what you retrieve doesn't want to be held."
Lucien turned toward the window. The glass shimmered faintly in the light.
"Then I'll hold it anyway."
Magnus studied him.
Lucien finally met his eyes.
There was no argument.
Only understanding—and the quiet certainty that this conversation would go no further.
Magnus reached for a folder. Changed the subject.
Lucien sat and listened in silence.
***
By evening, the three generations of Cronus—Magnus, Lucien, and Julian—Lucien's son. Gathered at the family estate for a quiet, formal early-dinner.
The dining room was set in quiet formality. Cream-colored linen, silver candleholders, a single vase of tulips at the center. A private chef plated the first course with efficient grace, then exited without a word. The staff had already been dismissed for the night.
Lucien sat at the head of the table. Magnus and Julian sat across from one another, spaced evenly, not by preference but by symbolism.
Julian sat straight, every gesture smooth, every word chosen with care. He looked like a prodigy—because he was one. At twenty-two, Julian Mireille-Cronus was already being hailed as the future of Chronos Industries. Polished. Brilliant. Impeccably dressed. He carried the effortless poise of someone designed for legacy.
He glanced across the table toward Magnus, then spoke. "Paris division stabilized the new core a full three weeks ahead of schedule."
Lucien didn't look up from his plate. "What's the margin?"
"Under point-nine in full sync. Better than last quarter."
Lucien cut into his food. "Won't hold."
Julian hesitated. "We ran simulations. All of them cleared."
Lucien finally looked up. "And the inversion drift?"
Julian blinked. "We compensated using Berlin's models"
Lucian nodded once—almost to himself. "Berlin is four years behind. They're using dead math."
The silence after that settled heavily. Julian's posture tightened slightly. He didn't argue.
Magnus sat down his utensils with deliberate calm. "Still, you've done well. It's solid work, Julian."
Julian managed a slight smile. "Yeah… Thank you."
Lucien wiped his mouth with a napkin. "Submit a correction. I want the new model by Friday."
Julian's throat shifted as he swallowed. "Yes, sir."
The next course arrived. They ate quietly, or pretended to. Only Lucien finished his plate. Julian moved his food more than he ate. Magnus sipped water.
***
After dinner, as Lucien walked past Magnus's study, voices carried into the hall.
"...He didn't even look at the graphs."
"He looked," Magnus said. "He always does. He just doesn't say what you want to hear."
Julian's voice was low. "Does he ever see me? Really?"
A pause.
"He does," Magnus said gently. "But Lucien doesn't speak in compassion. It's just… something you have to look past."
Lucien paused just long enough to hear it.
Then walked on.
***
Back at the Upper East Side estate. Lucien sat alone in his study, it was almost midnight now.
The fog rolled in over the skyline like a tide, softening the angles of the city. Lights flickered beneath it—distant, vague, pulsing through the mist like signals trying to reach something just our of range.
The windows stretched floor to ceiling behind him, but he didn't look out. His attention remained at his journal in-front of him.
His pen moved steadily.
"They are perfect."
"More perfect than I ever asked for. Than anyone could ask for."
"Isabelle always understands. Julian excels in everything. Magnus speaks with more grace than memory should allow."
"And still—I can't feel anything."
"They sit beside me and it's like watching a play staged by ghosts. Not because they aren't real. But because I've forgotten how to reach them."
"Or maybe I never did."
"I don't want to be cold. Or cruel."
"I'm just—"
"Bound."
"To something deeper. Older. Wound through time and sunk into the core of me like iron."
"I don't know who wrote this obsession into me. But it's a curse I only get to bear."
He paused. Looked up.
A photograph sat in a simple frame to his left. It was one of the few visible objects in his desk.
Lucien, Isabelle, and Julian. A captured moment. Perfect lighting. Composed. Balanced. The kind of image the world praised and believed.
His hand hovered over the frame.
Then pulled away.
He closed his journal slowly.
The door creaked open.
Isabelle appeared in the doorway, still in her robe, hair slightly damp, eyes soft with fatigue.
"I thought you might still be up," she said gently. "Just checking."
Lucien nodded.
She stepped in further. "You coming to bed?"
Lucien hesitated.
His throat tightened before he spoke. "Yes."
He stood. Walked with her down the hall.
They didn't hold hands.
But they walked together.
And when the lights turned off, they lay in silence—closer than strangers. Not quite close enough to be anything else.