CIARAN

People. Desperate, power-hungry creatures. Always watching, always waiting for their chance to crawl their way up—grasping at anything that smells like an opportunity. It's laughable, really, the way their eyes widen in barely concealed hunger when they spot someone useful. Someone who could hand them power on a silver platter.

Fucking leeches.

Women are no different. With their sultry gazes, calculated touches, and honeyed words, they play their roles well—too well. Some make it a game, twirling their fingers through their hair as they whisper flirtations that mean nothing, trying to act delicate. Feminine. Damsels in distress. It's nauseating.

A manicured hand brushes against my arm.

"Ciaran."

The voice is smooth, polished. A woman in red lipstick—a deep, rich shade that matches the dress clinging to her like a second skin. She looks at me like she knows me, like she's confident I'll humor her for at least a moment.

I don't.

I don't fucking know her, and I don't care to. Just another face in a room full of people desperate to matter. Another name I won't remember.

The weight of my last name does all the work for me. Valente. They cling to it. They respect it. They fear it. Even those who hate it—who hate me—speak it with grudging admiration.

I don't bother responding, barely sparing the woman a glance as I step past her. She falters, lips parting as if she might protest, as if she's shocked that I didn't fall into whatever little charade she was attempting.

Tough luck.

I slip away without a smile, without an ounce of interest, and straight into the only thing that might make this night somewhat entertaining.

The room is thick with ambition, too much cologne, and overpriced whiskey. The crowd is nothing but a mix of old money and hungry sharks, gathered here for one thing—power. Deals will be brokered over cigars. Promises will be whispered behind the glint of champagne glasses. And no one—not a single goddamn person in this room—is innocent.

Welcome to the fuckery of high society.

The man behind all of it? Henry Whitmore. A legend in business, a relic in age. He built Whitmore Capital from the ground up before half these spoiled bastards even knew what wealth was. The kind of man who didn't inherit power—he fucking took it. Ruthless. Unforgiving. The kind of player I can respect.

This gala? It's his empire on display. The city's elite, dressed to kill, hoping to impress a man who's seen it all.

"Valente," a voice pulls me from my thoughts.

James Radcliffe, banking tycoon. Two decades my senior, yet his handshake is firm, his eyes sharp with experience. "I hear you finally settled that port deal in Hong Kong."

I smirk. "Some people overcomplicate things. It's a matter of cutting through the noise."

He chuckles, nodding approvingly. "Spoken like a true businessman."

Spoken like someone who knows exactly how this world works.

Another man steps into the conversation—Sebastian Langford, oil magnate, shrewd bastard. "And here I thought Moreau had locked down that property in Dubai," he muses, watching me closely. A fishing expedition. A silent challenge.

I give him nothing.

"She thought so too," I say smoothly, lifting the crystal tumbler to my lips. The bourbon is rich, expensive. I roll it over my tongue before delivering the final blow. "Turns out, her confidence was misplaced."

A slow grin stretches across his face. He understands exactly what that means. I didn't just take Isla Moreau's win—I humiliated her in the process.

Langford lets out a knowing chuckle. "Cold-blooded, Valente."

The deal-makers, the game-players, the men who truly run the world? They appreciate the art of war. And business is nothing if not a battlefield.

But none of them matter right now. Not when I know she's here.

I can feel it—the same way you can sense a storm before it hits. It's in the way the air thickens, charged with something unspoken but unmistakable. The way people steal quick glances, anticipation curling at the edges of their curiosity.

And then, I see her.

Isla Moreau.

That deep red dress spills onto the floor like liquid wine, brushing against her as she moves. It clings to her figure like it was made to worship every fucking inch of her. Her blonde hair is swept into a low bun, though a few strands have dared to escape, framing her face in a way that looks deliberately careless. Effortless. Those blood-red lips move as she speaks, icy blue eyes cutting through the air, detached, calculating.

I don't know her, but I know her enough.

She is a Moreau.

And in this city, one thing is absolute—Moreau and Valente do not see eye to eye. Never have. Never fucking will. Our hatred is as old as our wealth, as tight as a well-stitched wound that refuses to heal.

Isla Moreau and I have never met.

But we hate each other.

This woman—this femme fatale in red—has made a hobby of fucking with my business.

Over the past two years, she's personally sabotaged three major Valente expansions. The Carlton Port acquisition—blocked by Moreau's legal team at the eleventh hour, costing me a crucial hub in global trade. The Vauclain Shipping Terminal—gone, because she had the influence to sway the land rights away from me and into her firm's grasp. And the latest? The Gravett Logistics Park—stolen right out from under me, signed over to Moreau Enterprises even after I'd locked in the negotiations.

Oh, but she didn't stop there.

No, Isla Moreau played her game well. If I were anyone else, I might even admire the cunning.

But I'm not just anyone.

And I never fucking sit still.

Retaliation was inevitable.

So I made sure Moreau Enterprises' luxury development project in Dubai faced endless construction delays. A little zoning issue here, some revoked permits there, and soon Isla found herself hemorrhaging investor trust and bleeding out millions in holding costs. Then I crushed her Madrid penthouse project, undercutting her negotiations with a strategic acquisition that left Moreau Enterprises locked out of the high-end European real estate market.

That was just the beginning.

I enjoy this war.

And judging by the way she fucking thrives in it, she does too.

She must sense my gaze on her.

Because suddenly, she turns.

And that's when it happens—those sharp, ice-blue eyes locking onto mine across the room.

It's the first time I've seen her face beyond magazines, billboards, and the financial news. The first time she sees me in the flesh. And for a fleeting second, something passes through the air between us. Something dark. Something crackling.

And fuck—I hate it.

I hate Isla Moreau.