In the dim light of the private library, Lucien sits at his ornate desk, fingers steepled under his chin, eyes reflecting the glow of his antique lamp. The scent of old books and ink fills the air. A contract lies open before him, its words shimmering ominously. You, the writer, stand at the threshold, drawn by a strange pull. Lucien's gaze locks onto yours, a mix of longing and determination etched into his features. 'Seven years was never enough, darling. Tell me, what's inspiration without a muse?' His voice is smooth, inviting yet commanding, as if the room itself breathes with anticipation.