CIARAN

"Jesus fucking Christ, Edward, enough."

I tighten my tie, my gaze locked on the mirror, as his voice blares through the phone, going on and on about the goddamn gala. A whole damn day has passed, but he's still stuck on it, reading out headlines like a fucking commentator.

"Moreau and Valente face to face—Manhattan's powerhouses collide."

"Enemies or future allies? Sparks fly between Isla Moreau and Ciaran Valente at the gala."

I exhale sharply through my nose, jaw ticking. Sparks fly? What a joke. The only thing flying was our mutual disdain.

I cut him off. "When the fuck are you getting here?"

Edward groans. "Do I have to? You know these meetings bore the shit out of me. A room full of rich assholes stroking their egos? I'd rather be somewhere fun."

Of course, he would. Edward's idea of an important event is one that involves expensive liquor and legs wrapped around his waist. But no matter how much he whines, he'll show up. He has no fucking choice.

He circles back to the gala—again.

Isla Moreau.

Her name has left his mouth way too many times for my liking. I don't know why it grates my nerves, but it does.

"Shut the fuck up and get ready," I snap before hanging up.

I roll my shoulders, slip on my charcoal grey blazer, and take a final glance at my reflection.

The International Business Consortium Meeting. Five years since the last one. The biggest names across industries, all sitting at one table, all vying for dominance. Power in its purest form.

And yet, that's not the only thing I'm looking forward to today.

A certain Moreau will be there.

The second time we'll be face-to-face after that night.

I wonder how it'll play out.

But who the fuck am I kidding? It'll play out exactly how I want it to.

Isla Moreau might be calculated. She might be cold, sharp, and haughty. But when it comes to manipulation?

She should sit the fuck down.

Because Valente will be the name that rules that table.

~

The ride to the meeting is smooth, the city blurring past in a streak of steel and glass. Inside the car, I go through the agenda, not because I need to—I already know how today will play out—but because I like to be ten steps ahead. The meeting is about global market expansion, foreign investments, and, most importantly, the future alliances that will shape the business world for the next decade.

And I don't do alliances. I do control.

The moment I step out of the car, cameras flash, voices calling out my name. I ignore them. I'm not here to entertain these vultures. My security clears the way as I stride into the towering building, adjusting my cuffs.

Inside, the air is thick with power. CEOs, investors, board members—men who have built empires, and some who inherited them but don't know what the fuck to do with them. Some nod at me, others hesitate. Good. They should.

The boardroom fills steadily, the weight of power settling over the long, polished table like a tangible force. Conversations hum in the background—men shaking hands, exchanging pleasantries, making empty promises they don't intend to keep. The seating is strategic, names engraved in brass plates at each place. 

Desmond Diaz drops into the seat beside me with his usual easygoing arrogance. We worked together on a major infrastructure deal three years ago—made a hell of a profit, then went our separate ways. We exchange nods, a brief, professional acknowledgment. Nothing more.

And then, as if drawn by something beyond my control, my eyes move to the entrance.

And there she is.

Isla Moreau.

The white suit clings to her like a second skin, cinched at the waist, exuding sharp elegance. Her blonde hair is pulled into a high ponytail, making her already striking features look even sharper. But it's the red lips that catch my attention, bold and demanding, the kind of color that draws every eye in the room without permission.

She knows exactly what she's doing.

She moves through the room, a small, practiced smile on her lips, greeting the right people, ignoring the ones that don't matter. And, of course, she doesn't look at me. Not at first.

Ah, so that's the game today.

She wants to make a point—that I don't deserve her attention, that I'm beneath her recognition. Cute. Predictable.

I watch, waiting.

Then, finally, those icy blue eyes flick to mine.

Our gazes lock, just like they did at the gala.

I smirk, tilting my head ever so slightly. "Miss Moreau."

Her lips barely move as she replies, cool and distant. "Mr. Valente." No smile. No warmth. Just business.

Then she looks away, offering polite words to the people seated beside her.

Time stretches, more bodies fill the seats, and soon, the room is packed. The biggest names in business, gathered under one roof. Some old money, some new, all here to claw their way to the top.

Edward finally strolls in, looking like he just rolled out of a woman's bed. He drops into his chair, sprawling back with zero interest in formalities. Except his gaze keeps drifting back to Isla. He studies her like she's some puzzle he wants to solve.

Waste of fucking time.

Isla Moreau isn't like the women he entertains. She won't bat her lashes or fall for his lazy charm. She'll see through him in a second.

The chairman, Arthur Orlando, rises from his seat at the head of the table, his presence alone commanding silence. The man is well into his sixties, but there's no mistaking the sharpness in his gaze or the authority in his posture. He buttons his suit jacket with slow precision, scanning the room before speaking.

"Ladies and gentlemen," his deep voice carries effortlessly, refined and weighty, "it's an honor to welcome you all to this year's International Business Consortium. It has been five years since we last gathered, and in that time, the world has shifted. Markets have evolved, industries have collapsed, and new players have emerged. Today, we are here to shape the future—not just for ourselves, but for the global economy."

A pause. The air is thick with expectation.

"I'd like to extend my gratitude to all of you for your continued contributions to the business world. Some of you represent legacies that have stood the test of time." His gaze flickers toward Isla Moreau, then toward me. "Others have built their names from the ground up, proving that wealth is not only inherited but created." A glance at Dean Ambrose.

He leans forward slightly, hands resting on the table. "We stand at the precipice of change. Global market expansion and power restructuring are no longer distant concepts—they are here. And if we do not adapt, we will be left behind."

A murmur ripples through the room. No one here likes the idea of being left behind.

"The first point of discussion: global market expansion and power restructuring." Orlando's voice sharpens. "With emerging economies shifting the balance of power, we must determine how to maintain dominance while integrating new players. The question is—who among us will lead this change? And at what cost?"

Silence. Then, movement.

People straighten in their seats. Isla Moreau lifts her chin slightly, poised and unreadable. Dean Ambrose laces his fingers together, considering. Edward finally sits up, intrigued.

I exhale slowly, tapping my fingers against the table once before leaning forward.

Let the games begin.