I stared at the old photo for a long time before dialing the number.
It was the only one we had of him alone.
My father standing in front of the bookstore years ago, smiling like he owned the world. His blue eyes bright. His arm wrapped around my mother's waist.
Back when we were still a family.
I hated that I still remembered the way he smelled. Cedar and coffee.
I hated that I still remembered the sound of his laugh.
Joseph did not remember much. He was too young.
But I did.
And that made it worse.
I had searched his name online for years. Nothing concrete. No social media. No clear address. Just fragments.
But three days ago, something appeared.
A property record.
Same name.
Same middle initial.
An address two hours away from our town.
I told myself I was doing this for answers.
For survival.
Not because some part of me still wanted him to look at me and regret leaving.
The drive felt longer than it was.
Grey sky. Empty roads. My hands gripping the steering wheel too tightly.
What am I even going to say?
Hello, father. By the way, did your mother sell my soul to the Devil?
I almost laughed at the absurdity.
When I finally reached the address, I froze.
The house was not small.
It was not broken.
It was beautiful.
Modern. White stone. Large windows.
Expensive.
My chest tightened.
He left us struggling in a tiny house over a bookstore.
And he lives here?
I stepped out of the car slowly.
Each step toward the door felt heavier.
I knocked before I could lose courage.
Seconds passed.
Then the door opened.
Time stopped.
He looked older.
Grey streaks in his dark hair.
Faint lines around his eyes.
But it was him.
The same blue eyes.
The same sharp jaw.
He stared at me.
Confusion.
Recognition.
Then something else.
Fear.
"Aurélie," he breathed.
He remembered.
My throat tightened.
"You kept the name," I said quietly.
His gaze flickered.
"I always remembered."
I laughed bitterly.
"Did you?"
Silence stretched between us.
He stepped back slightly.
"Come inside."
I hesitated.
Then I did.
The house smelled expensive.
Polished wood and citrus.
Family photos lined the wall.
But not ours.
Not me.
Not Joseph.
A woman appeared from the kitchen.
Blonde. Elegant. Smiling.
Until she saw me.
Her smile faded.
"Who is this?" she asked.
My father did not answer immediately.
My stomach dropped.
"She is…" he started.
His hesitation hurt more than anything.
"I am his daughter," I said coldly.
The woman's face went pale.
She looked at him.
"You told me they moved to France."
My ears rang.
What?
"I needed to protect you," he said quickly.
Protect her?
From what?
My chest felt hollow.
"You lied about us?" I whispered.
His eyes met mine again.
And that fear was still there.
But it was not guilt.
It was dread.
"You should not have come," he said quietly.
Anger flared instantly.
"You left us!"
His jaw tightened.
"You think I wanted to?"
"Yes," I snapped. "You left for her."
The blonde woman stepped back, clearly uncomfortable.
"That is not why I left," he said sharply.
"Then why?"
Silence.
Heavy.
Oppressive.
"Because if I stayed," he said slowly, "you would have died."
The words knocked the air from my lungs.
"What?"
He ran a hand through his hair.
"You have no idea what your grandmother is."
Ice spread through my veins.
"You know," I whispered.
He looked at me like he had been waiting for this moment for years.
"She made a deal."
My heart began pounding violently.
"With who?" I asked.
But I already knew.
His voice trembled slightly.
"With him."
The room felt smaller.
"You knew," I said.
"Yes."
"You knew she offered me."
His eyes filled with something broken.
"I tried to stop it."
My vision blurred.
"You left us."
"I left to find a way to break it."
The blonde woman whispered something about needing air and disappeared into another room.
I did not care.
"You abandoned mom," I said through clenched teeth.
"I was protecting you."
"By leaving?"
"Yes!"
His voice cracked.
"You were marked the moment you were born!"
Marked.
The ticking roared in my ears.
"You think he just appeared recently?" my father continued. "He has been watching since before you could walk."
My legs felt weak.
"You see him," he said quietly.
It was not a question.
"You see him, do you not?"
Tears burned behind my eyes.
I hated that he was right.
"He came to kill her," my father whispered. "Your grandmother begged. Offered you."
"And you let her?" I screamed.
"I was not there!" he shouted back. "I found out after."
My breathing became uneven.
"You left to find a way to break it?" I asked bitterly.
"Yes."
"And did you?"
Silence.
His silence was the answer.
My chest collapsed inward.
All these years.
All this anger.
And the truth was worse.
He had not left for love.
He had left for fear.
But he still left.
"You should not have come here," he repeated softly.
"Why?"
His eyes darkened.
"Because he will know."
A cold wave passed through the room.
The lights flickered.
My father went pale.
"Too late," he whispered.
The temperature dropped instantly.
I did not need to turn around.
I felt him.
Lucifer stood behind me.
Silent.
Watching.
My father's face drained of color completely.
The King of Hell looked… different.
Not amused.
Not teasing.
Cold.
Deadly.
"Still running," Lucifer said softly.
My father did not respond.
He could not.
Lucifer's gaze shifted to me.
And something changed.
He saw my face.
The tears I had failed to stop.
The way my shoulders trembled.
His expression softened.
Barely.
But I saw it.
"I told you not to interfere," he said to my father.
His voice was calm.
Terrifyingly calm.
"I was trying to protect her," my father whispered.
Lucifer's jaw tightened slightly.
"She is not yours to protect."
I felt anger surge again.
"I am not an object," I snapped.
Lucifer looked at me immediately.
The coldness vanished.
Replaced by something else.
Something almost… concerned.
My father stepped forward impulsively.
Lucifer did not even move.
But the air shifted violently.
My father was forced back against the wall as if invisible hands held him there.
"Stop!" I shouted.
Lucifer's eyes flickered.
He released him instantly.
I turned to my father.
"I do not need you to fight him," I said quietly.
Because he would lose.
We both knew it.
Tears spilled down my cheeks.
Not from fear.
From exhaustion.
From betrayal.
From knowing there was no escape.
Lucifer stepped closer to me slowly.
Not possessive this time.
Careful.
"You are upset," he said softly.
I let out a broken laugh.
"Upset?"
He looked almost… uncertain.
It was the first time I had seen him unsure.
"I did not intend for you to find out this way," he said.
"You intended for me to never have a choice."
Silence.
He did not deny it.
My chest hurt.
"I hate you," I whispered.
The words came out weaker than I wanted.
His eyes darkened slightly.
But not with anger.
With something heavier.
"You do not," he replied quietly.
I wanted to argue.
But I could not.
Because part of me did not.
And that terrified me more than anything.
Lucifer lifted his hand slowly.
For a second I thought he would disappear again.
Instead, he touched my cheek gently.
Not teasing.
Not seductive.
Just warm.
"You are not alone in this," he said softly.
The arrogance was gone.
The mockery gone.
Just him.
And for the first time since this began, he did not look like a king.
He looked like a man.
"You should have killed her," I whispered.
His eyes flickered.
"I know."
My heart stopped.
"You regret it?"
He held my gaze.
"Yes."
Silence filled the room.
Heavy.
Honest.
And that frightened me more than his threats ever had.
Because if Lucifer could regret something…
Then maybe this was bigger than I thought.
His hand slid from my cheek slowly.
"One month," he reminded quietly.
But this time it did not sound like a threat.
It sounded like a countdown he was not entirely sure about.
As he began to fade from the room, his eyes never left mine.
And I realized something that made my stomach drop.
My grandmother did not just bargain for my soul.
She bargained for something else.
Something Lucifer was not telling me.
And whatever it was…
It was the real reason he had not killed her.