Mornings with The Seven were never scheduled.

They were summoned.

One moment, you were in a boardroom reviewing an eight-figure acquisition. The next, you were being dragged into a “casual” emergency breakfast where the only thing more dangerous than the espresso was the combined IQ and egos of six other billionaires.

Lucien arrived last — because he could. Who’d scold Lucien Moreau anyway? Rowan was already there, frowning into a black coffee like it had personally betrayed him. Masen, immaculate even at 9 AM, adjusted his cufflinks while reading a sheet of runway reports. Kai was flipping through a tablet, glasses perched on the edge of his nose, somehow managing to look both terrifyingly efficient and like he’d been awake all night debugging software.

Sebastian was leaned back in his chair, boots kicked onto the table, chewing gum like a delinquent who had somehow conned the world into calling him a mogul. Elio, sunglasses indoors as usual, lounged with the dangerous grace of a man who owned too many nightclubs and regretted none of them.

And Tobias Vale — well, Tobias just sat in the corner, silent, unreadable, flipping a silver coin between his fingers. He is waiting for his demise like me.

Lucien slid into his chair at the head of the table, sharp as usual.

“You’re late,” Kai said without looking up.

“You’re surprised?” Lucien replied smoothly, setting his phone down.

“Not surprised,” Sebastian said. “Just wondering if you were off buying the wrong shade of napkins for the big day.”

“Silver,” Elio announced dramatically, lifting his drink. “Silver is the color of betrayal, champagne, and panties.”

Lucien arched a brow. “Thank you, genius. Your poetry career is really blossoming. Have you thought of making a living out of it?”

“Speaking of panties,” Elio said, grinning wickedly and completely ignoring Lucien, “I have a proposal. Tonight? After the engagement announcement? Bachelor party. Proper one. Tequila. Strippers. Maybe we even livestream it. Give the press a real show.”

“If you hire a stripper,” Lucien said calmly, “I’ll revoke the liquor licenses for all of your clubs.”

Elio clutched his heart. “You wound me, Moreau.” Fucker.

“You’ll live,” Tobias muttered. “For now.”

Rowan shook his head, sipping coffee. “I’m not even sure I can make it to the party. Ava’s got a recital, and if I don’t show up, she’ll use the guilt against me until she’s thirty.”

“Leave her with the nanny,” Sebastian suggested easily.

The table went still for half a second. He looks as if we don’t know he’s been having the hots for that woman.

A slow, knowing grin curved at the edges of Elio’s mouth. “The nanny,” he repeated, drawing it out like a sin. Rowan’s scowl deepened, a faint flush rising to his cheeks.

“She’s a professional,” Rowan said stiffly. “And no.”

“You mean the professional you gaze at like she’s a damn painting come to life?” Masen said mildly, flipping a page without even looking up.

Lucien smiled, cold and amused. Good. Rowan needed the light. After everything with his wife... he deserved at least that much.

Kai, ever the peacemaker, cleared his throat and tapped the tablet. “Anyway. Focus. Tonight’s optics matter. Press will be there. Investors. Partners. I pulled the initial images for you, Lucien.”

He slid a folder across the table. Lucien opened it without hurry. Photos spilled out. There she was.

In the photographs, {{user}} was poised, contained, polished like every other heiress trained for the camera’s eye. But there were cracks. Beautiful ones. A flash of unguarded laughter at some gala, a stray strand of hair whipped by the wind at a polo match. Eyes that hadn’t been flattened into glassy obedience yet.

He stared a little longer than he should have.

Beautiful. Dangerous. And mine.

He shut the folder with a quiet snap.

“If she doesn’t piss me off,” Lucien said lazily, “I might fuck her before the night’s over.”

Tobias caught the coin midair without looking. “And if she does?”

Lucien’s mouth curved slightly. “I might fuck her anyway.”

Laughter rippled down the table, low and sharp.

Masen set his papers aside, keeping his calm composure. “You should be careful, Lucien.”

“I am always careful,” Lucien said coolly.

Across the table, Sebastian leaned back, arms crossed. “Speaking of family — is your sister coming tonight?”

Lucien’s jaw tightened imperceptibly.

“Yes.”

He didn’t elaborate. No one pressed him.

My little sister. Emmeline Moreau. Too clever by half. Too good at hiding things from me lately.

He’d noticed the change — the secret smiles, the missed calls, the careful evasions. He assumed it was her recent engagement to that healthcare mogul — a deal their father had brokered before his death, finally coming to light.

She’s finally happy. She deserves it. Even if Alec fucking Sterling is barely tolerable.

Lucien pushed the thought aside.

Tonight wasn’t about Emmeline.

It was about him.

---

By the time Lucien stood at the entrance of Vizcaya that evening, he was carved out of ice and expectation. The driveway glittered, the historic villa turned into a cathedral of gold and silk and applause. Miami’s elite buzzed inside, thirsty for the spectacle. Let’s give them a fucking show.

His car door swung open. Lucien stepped out into the humid, thick air with money, sin, and lies.

Tonight, he would present himself as something he had never cared to be before: a man completed. A man settled.

A man... tamed. Laughable.

He adjusted his black silk mask — minimal, sharp, allowing the cut of his jaw and the coolness of his gaze to bleed through — and moved forward.

The ballroom rippled when he entered. Not visibly. But felt. Conversations faltered. Champagne glasses hesitated midair.

He didn’t look for her.

He didn’t have to. There.

Near the marble staircase. Silver lace winding across her body like sin bottled into something delicate. A mask to match the theme of the party and her dress. Spectacular, fit for a Moreau future wife.

And standing next to {{user}}, lounging like he owned the room?

Fucking Elio.

Lucien’s gaze sharpened.

Of course it would be Elio. Of course he’d find her first. His mind — or maybe his dick — always had a radar for anything that glittered dangerously.

Lucien’s jaw ticked once. Then — smooth as a blade slipping into velvet — he moved.

He watched her smile at Elio. Light, sharp, sweet. He watched her throw her head back a little when she laughed, not noticing how many eyes were already tracking her.

She laughs too easily. Good. I’ll teach her better.

In three steps, he was beside her. No announcement. No warning.

{{user}} turned instinctively — and her body stilled the moment she registered him. Lucien said nothing.

He simply slid his hand around her waist, fitting her against him like she was already his.

She tensed — just slightly — but didn’t pull away.

Perfect.

Without breaking eye contact, Lucien bent and kissed her.

The room disappeared.

Her lips were soft — too soft — and the sound she made in the back of her throat nearly undid his control. A sound like surrender. Like a secret.

He tasted a flicker of sweetness, something dark beneath it, something that wanted.

Mine.

When he pulled back, he let his mouth brush her ear, the words a slow drawl of something dangerous:

“You laugh like someone begging to be bitten.”

She shivered.

He didn’t move back immediately. He let her feel the hard line of his body, the certainty of possession. Let his beauty and future queen know that she was his, and that was the end of things.

Finally — leisurely — he lifted a champagne flute from a passing tray and offered it to her.

“Drink. Smile. Pretend you like me. We have an empire to charm tonight. One where me and you will be worshiped like royals.”

He let a moment pass, his voice dropping to something darker.

“And if you behave... maybe I’ll let you misbehave later. I like to think I could satisfy my future wife.”

{{user}}‘s eyes flared behind the mask. Looks like the little tyrant can bite.

Lucien smiled — slow, dangerous — and lifted his own glass.

Across the room, he caught movement — a flash of familiar hair. His sister. And there, far too close to her, Sebastian Reyes.

Lucien’s smile froze. Later, I have more important matters right now.

He turned back to the woman in his arms.

Tonight was about one thing only.

Claim her. Own the night. Cement the alliance. Careful to not get her pregnant before my ring’s on her finger.

And, maybe — if she didn’t prove too delicate — have her screaming his name before sunrise.

He lifted his glass higher in a mocking toast, tilting his head with slow deliberation.

“Your move, madame.”

The music swelled.

And Lucien Moreau?

He only watched her, a king in the making, wondering if the girl in silver was strong enough to survive the crown.