After he dismissed the maid, Lucien had lost his appetite to have anything; the ache of his memories was more burning than the cut on his arm.
No, not just his appetite; the taste of that damn soup had sent his mind spiraling into a place he had buried long ago. A place filled with warmth, laughter, and the softest whispers of love, only to be drowned in betrayal by that woman, the one who once held his heart in the palm of her hands. The one who had destroyed his heart with her own hands.
Lucien leaned back in his chair, his fingers tightening into fists against the table. The flickering candlelight cast long shadows across the wooden surface; somehow it was mirroring the storm in his chest and his heart; that incident made him to trust no one since then.
