No four words could’ve hurt more.

She loved Lucian. As crazy as it was to even fall for him, she had. It had been scary from the moment she’d realized that she had developed feelings for him. She’d known then it had been risky. Their lives were nothing alike, and she’d struggled with the fear that she’d never fit in, but she’d trusted him—trusted that he’d never make her feel that way. In the end, it didn’t matter how many people turned their noses up at her or made her feel foolish in a fancy dress. As long as he was standing by her side, she wouldn’t have cared at all.

She squeezed her eyes shut against the burn of fresh tears. The numbness was fading, and what had happened was beginning to truly set in.

They’d been in the car for about thirty minutes, only halfway to the airport, and she hadn’t even begun to deal with everything that had happened to her in the last twenty-four hours.

And she knew Lucian hadn’t either.

Those damn tears snuck free, tracking down her cheeks. How was she going to go on after this, like none of this happened? How was Lucian supposed to go on?

A tremble coursed throughout her. She was leaving. She was doing what Lucian had asked, but leaving felt . . . it felt wrong. Not because it hurt and that kind of hurting was only just beginning, but because it felt like she . . . she’d given up.

That even though he had ordered her to leave, it was her giving up on him—her giving him control by giving in.

Had she’d done the right thing?

“Ms. Hughes, may I say something?”

The sound of Richard’s voice jolted her out of her thoughts. She dragged her gaze away from the window and looked up front. He hadn’t spoken this entire time. If he had, she hadn’t heard him.

She cleared her throat. “Sure.”

“I don’t know if Lucian ever told you this, but when he was little, he was the scapegoat.” He glanced in the rearview mirror. “For his brothers and his sister—especially his sister. He would get between Lawrence and Madeline. He’d fight for her.”

Wiping the tears off her face, she let out a shaky breath. “He . . .” She trailed off as she shook her head. “He mentioned something like that.”

“Did he tell you that his brothers fought for him? That wouldn’t be a lie. They did for the most part, but not . . . not like he would for them. You don’t know how far he’s gone for his family. Even if you think you do, you don’t.”

Julia lowered her hands to her lap, her fingers curling into her palms. She knew some of what he’d done for his brothers, some of it frightening beyond belief, but she’d accepted the things that he’d done out of loyalty and a fierce protectiveness she knew she would’ve shown for her own family. Was there more?

With Lucian—with the de Vincent brothers—there was always more.

This wasn’t right.

Something . . . something powerful and sure was building inside her. Her hands opened and closed restlessly.

Richard’s gaze flicked to the rearview mirror once more. “He’s never had anyone fight for him the way he has fought for others.”

She sucked in a sharp breath.

“I have to ask. Are you going to fight for him, Julia?”

Lucian stood in front of the closed door. Never in his life had he entered the room. Not when he was a child. Not as an adult. But now he stood in front of his father’s bedroom, the room his mother never even slept in.

He didn’t know why he came here, but he’d left Julia’s room and somehow this was where he found himself. Lucian reached for the knob. Unlocked, it slipped open and cold air rushed out as he stepped inside.

The room was sparse, and that had nothing to do with his death. No one had started to pack his shit up yet. It was just that his father, his actual God damn father, didn’t see the need for frivolous, inconsequential things. The man himself had been spare down to the very bone, with his attention and love.

Lucian stood before the bed—the only bed in the house that didn’t feature Gabe’s design. The bed was made, pillows flat at the top. To the right was a dresser. There was a TV mounted to the wall. And a chair. That was it.

Fucking empty of life.

Just like his father.

Maybe if Lawrence had been a better father, Maddie would’ve . . . she wouldn’t have turned out the way she had. Maybe if their dad had actually acted like he gave a shit about them, she wouldn’t have ended the way she did.

He was dying inside.

He’d lost his sister. He’d lost Julia.

Red-hot rage bled out of every pore. He wasn’t thinking as he stepped forward and gripped the edges of the blanket. Tearing the blanket and sheets free, he ripped them from the bed, throwing them to the floor.

Spinning around, he stalked over to the TV. He grabbed hold of the screen and pulled. Muscles along his arm and back flexed and tightened as the mount caught on bolts. Fury was a powerful drug. Drywall plumed into the air as the mount gave way, ripping the bolts straight out.

Lucian threw the TV to the floor, molars grinding down as the screen cracked, then shattered.

The chair went next, into the wall beside it. The hole that broke through did nothing—absolutely nothing to stop the rage. He stalked over to the dresser.

Grabbing a wooden box, he flung it off the dresser. Rings flew across the room, skating off the floor. Cigars rolled. A watch fell against the stripped bed. Not the one his father always wore. A different one Lucian’s mother had given him for Christmas one year. His bastard of a father never wore it, though. The fucking tag was still on it, over a decade later.

He turned back to the dresser, to the neat stack of books and the bottles of cologne. Swiping his arm across the top, he swept off the books and bottles. The crashing and breaking of glass did nothing to temper his rage.

The overpowering scent of pine filled the room as he grabbed the dresser and toppled it over. Dressers fell out, smashing against the floor. He stepped back, body trembling and breathing heavy. He wanted to tear the room down to the studs, eradicate every piece of his father.

“Lucian.”

Every muscle in his body locked up as he closed his eyes. Shit. Now he was hearing Julia’s voice. Had he lost his damn mind? Would make sense, all things considered.

“Lucian.” Julia’s voice came again. “Please.”

A series of goose bumps rose over his damn skin. His hands opened and closed at his sides and then slowly, he turned around.

Julia stood in front of the doorway, her hair falling in loose waves around her pale, stricken face. It was really her. She was flesh and blood.

His chest rose and fell deeply. She shouldn’t be here. God, she should be far away from him. Hadn’t he told her to leave?

Her throat worked on a visible swallow as she stepped forward, stopping when he tensed. “What are you doing?”

“Redecorating,” he rasped out. “Like my design?”

Julia winced as those gorgeous warm eyes glistened. “Oh Lucian.”

“Don’t.” He held up a hand. “I told you to leave. Why are you here?”

He expected her to flinch, for that beautiful face to pale even further, but that’s not what happened. That slightly pointy chin of hers lifted and her shoulders squared like they’d done a hundred times before, usually minutes before she put him in his place.

“I’m here,” she said. “I’m here, because I love you.”

It was Lucian who flinched. He stumbled back a step. “Don’t—”

“No.” Her voice was like a crack of thunder in the middle of a summer storm. “You’re going to shut up and you’re going to listen to me.”

Lucian blinked. Surprise rendered him quiet.

“I cannot even imagine what you’re going through and what you’re feeling. The last twenty-four hours have completely changed your life—changed everything you knew, but they haven’t changed who you are.”

A harsh laugh burst from him. “I know exactly who I am.”

“I don’t think you do.” She took another step forward. “I don’t think you know at all.”

Jaw working, he looked away. “You only know the half of what I’ve done—”