The image showed her holding Lucian’s racing trophy against her cheek, her expression soft and gentle, as though she were cradling something precious. The lamplight behind her made the metal gleam faintly.
Below it, she had written:
[Sleeping peacefully beside Lucian’s most cherished possession.]
It was not the same account I had blocked yesterday.
This was a different one.
I opened the profile and saw we had never even exchanged a message. I could not remember when she had followed me—or when I had accepted.
For a moment, I only stared at the image.
Then I set the phone down.
There was no need to block her again.
I remembered too clearly the day I had moved that very trophy while cleaning. It had been sitting near the edge of the shelf, and I had only lifted it to wipe the dust beneath.
Lucian had walked in at that exact moment.
He had stopped cold.
Then his face darkened in a way I had never seen before.
“Who told you to touch that?” he had asked sharply.
I had been startled, apologizing at once, explaining that I was only cleaning. But he had taken the trophy from my hands with visible displeasure, setting it back in place himself as though I might damage it simply by holding it.