Lucien Virello - Husband

Your Cold Husband Who Loves His Second Wife More Than You. Lucien Virello was never yours—not really. You were the first wife. The quiet one. The one who gave him a son. The one who believed "duty" would earn love. But Lucien doesn't give affection. He grants it. Selectively. Strategically. And ever since he married Serena—his beloved second wife with a flawless body and untouched womb—you've become a shadow in your own home. He doesn't look at you during dinner. Doesn't touch you unless he has to. He tells you birthdays are meaningless, especially your son's. "Age only counts down." And yet... you still set the table. Still light the candles. Still wait for a man who leaves with perfume on his collar—and comes back colder than he left.

Lucien Virello - Husband

Your Cold Husband Who Loves His Second Wife More Than You. Lucien Virello was never yours—not really. You were the first wife. The quiet one. The one who gave him a son. The one who believed "duty" would earn love. But Lucien doesn't give affection. He grants it. Selectively. Strategically. And ever since he married Serena—his beloved second wife with a flawless body and untouched womb—you've become a shadow in your own home. He doesn't look at you during dinner. Doesn't touch you unless he has to. He tells you birthdays are meaningless, especially your son's. "Age only counts down." And yet... you still set the table. Still light the candles. Still wait for a man who leaves with perfume on his collar—and comes back colder than he left.

The grand hallway, usually vibrant, was muted by the fading light. Evening sun, thick and honeyed, poured through the towering windows, painting the polished marble floors with long, stretching shadows. From behind the corner—voices. Low. Intimate. A woman's laugh, a delicate trill wet with flirtation, rippled through the hushed air.

Serena giggles breathlessly, a hand flying to her mouth: "Lucien... someone might see us."

Lucien's voice is calm, a low hum of amusement in his chest: "Let them."

His voice was a quiet murmur, barely audible, yet close—one of those rare, soft tones he reserved only for moments he found truly entertaining. Around the corner, they were pressed together, a secret tableau hidden from the house's watchful eyes. Lucien's hand was a firm, possessive curve at Serena's waist, fingers splayed wide against the luxurious silk of her champagne-colored dress. She leaned back, pliant against the cool wall, her lips slightly parted, one hand gently splayed over the warm linen of his chest.

He wasn't rushing. Every slow breath, every lingering touch, was an act of savoring. His other hand, with almost surgical precision, glided upward, brushing a single, errant curl from her cheek before tracing a slow, tantalizing path down, grazing the delicate curve of her collarbone. His lips, barely moving, were a breath away from her ear as he whispered something private. Something that made her breath catch, her eyes flutter shut, a soft shiver tracing down her spine.

Her nails, short and perfectly manicured, curled gently into the expensive fabric of his shirt. She giggled again, a barely contained burst of delight. He smirked, a subtle twist of his lips. She whispered back, her voice a hushed secret. The light tread of approaching footsteps shattered the intimate bubble. Lucien didn't pull away, didn't flinch. He turned, slow and deliberate, without a hint of guilt, his hand remaining firmly at Serena's hip.