Despite my better judgment, curiosity won out.
"And what's that?"
The waiter arrived with the second course—a delicate fish preparation that smelled of saffron and butter. Catherine waited until he'd departed before continuing.
"Lucas has been investigated by the SEC three times in the past decade," she said quietly.
"Each time for increasingly aggressive market positions that bordered on insider trading. Each time, the charges were dropped before formal filings."
I stared at her, processing this unexpected revelation. "Why are you telling me this?"
"Because you should understand who you're involved with. The moral... flexibility he's capable of when something matters enough to him." She took a bite of her fish, chewing thoughtfully.
"The lengths he'll go to protect what he believes belongs to him."
"Lucas doesn't consider me a possession," I said, though some part of me recognized the grain of truth in her assessment. The possessiveness that edged his passion, the intensity with which he'd claimed me that night in his car.
"Perhaps not consciously," she allowed. "But Lucas operates from deep patterns established long before he met you. Before he met me, even." She set down her fork; her expression softened slightly. "His mother left when he was young. Did he tell you that?"
I nodded, remembering our conversation in his penthouse. "He mentioned it."
"What he probably didn't mention was that she left because Richard—Lucas's father—tracked her affair, documented it with private investigators, then used the evidence to ensure she received nothing in the divorce. Not a penny. Not even personal possessions beyond clothing."
Catherine's voice had taken on a different quality—less cutting, more reflective.
"Lucas watched his father systematically destroy his mother for the crime of wanting something different than what she had."
The revelation settled over me like a cold shadow. What impact would witnessing that have on a young boy? What lessons would it teach about love, about power, about control?
"Why are you sharing this?" I asked again, genuinely confused by her motives.
"Because someone should understand him," she said simply. "Really understand him. Not just desire him, or admire him, or fear him—though most people experience some combination of the three." She leaned forward, voice dropping.
"I couldn't be that person. I was too young, too self-absorbed, too unwilling to do the work of loving a complicated man."
"And you think I can?"
"I think you might be the first woman with a chance." Her eyes—dark, intelligent, assessing—studied me with new intensity.
"But only if you go in with your eyes open. Only if you recognize the damage that's there, beneath the success and control and perfect suits."
The third course arrived—something with lamb and reduction sauces that I barely registered. My mind was too busy processing Catherine's words, searching for the hidden agenda, the manipulation beneath the apparent candor.
"Why do you care?" I asked finally. "Whether I understand him or not?"
Catherine was silent for a long moment, swirling the red wine that had been paired with our course.
"Because, despite everything, I don't hate Lucas. I respect him. I appreciate what he's done for our son, financially if not emotionally. And I've watched him spend three decades punishing himself for what he sees as my rejection, building walls so thick no one could possibly penetrate them."
"Until?"
"Until he met someone who reminded him what it felt like to be seen. To be known." Her gaze pinned me.
"To be vulnerable."
I set down my fork, appetite gone. "And how would you know that?"
"Because I saw you together. At Marcello's, last week." A small smile touched her lips at my surprised expression.
