ISLA

Ciaran Valente is looking at me.

And I am looking at him.

We stand across the room, but the air has already shifted, thick with something unspoken but razor-sharp. Neither of us looks away. Maybe he expects I will. Maybe this is a test—a silent challenge to see who will back down first.

Hm.

He lifts his chin slightly, as if daring me. Come on, Isla. Look away. Give me the fucking satisfaction.

I don't.

Instead, I lift my glass to my lips, taking a slow sip of the dark red wine, maintaining unwavering eye contact. Smooth. Effortless. I see the flicker of something in his piercing dark eyes—not surprise, not irritation, but something else entirely. Something dangerous.

Before I can analyze it further, a voice cuts through our silent battle.

"Miss Moreau."

A new face enters the picture. A man. Refined. Elegant. He extends a hand toward me, a warm yet polished smile resting on his lips. Mr. Charles Levigne. Chairman of Levigne Joaillerie, one of the most prestigious luxury jewelry brands in Europe.

I return the smile, composed and pleasant, as I take his hand, my blonde strands swaying lightly as I turn.

"Mr. Levigne," I greet smoothly.

"It is a pleasure to finally meet you," he says. "I've heard quite a lot about your remarkable career over the years."

I offer a demure smile. "You flatter me. But I must say, I hold your craftsmanship in the highest regard. Levigne Joaillerie is an icon in the industry."

His wrinkles crinkle as he grins. "You're too kind. My wife is my muse. Every great design I've created has been inspired by her."

I incline my head, eyes catching a brief glance past his shoulder.

Ciaran Valente's back is now turned to me.

He's speaking to someone, engaged in conversation, his dark form cut sharp against the opulence of the room.

Good. Stay distracted, Valente.

Mr. Levigne continues speaking, effortlessly guiding the conversation to the evening's gala. He is generous with his words—and his wallet, it seems—subtly mentioning that he has made a six-figure donation to the charity foundation hosting tonight's event.

Charming.

Then, his tone shifts slightly, a twinkle in his aged eyes.

"There is someone here I believe you'd be quite interested in meeting."

I lift a brow. "Oh? And who might that be?"

"Dean Ambrose."

Ah.

Now that is a name I recognize.

Dean Ambrose is not old money—not a Moreau, not a Valente, not a Sinclair or a Wren. He built his empire from nothing, carving his name into the business world through sheer force of will and unmatched strategy. His company's real estate ventures have skyrocketed in the last five years, nearly rivaling those who have dominated the industry for generations.

I nod, setting my empty wine glass on the passing server's tray.

"Lead the way."

We move smoothly through the room, the practiced grace of high society guiding my steps. The polite smile remains on my lips—until it doesn't.

Because as soon as Mr. Levigne stops, as soon as I look at the two men standing before me, that pleasant expression vanishes.

One of them is a Valente.

How utterly displeasing.

Ciaran stands just inches away, and for a split second, there's a crack in his nonchalant expression. His jaw tenses, but only slightly. I don't acknowledge him. Why should I? My world does not spin on his axis.

The air turns thick—thicker than before. The weight of generations of hatred settling between us.

Mr. Levigne is already flustered, realizing the gravity of the mistake he's just made. He wasn't expecting a Moreau and a Valente to stand this close, face-to-face, not in a room full of people watching—waiting for something to snap.

One might think he did this on purpose, but the sweat beading at his temple tells me otherwise.

He fumbles, lips parting, no doubt to apologize, to smooth it over, but I silence him with a perfectly placed smile.

"There's no need, Mr. Levigne." My voice is silken, effortlessly composed. "You were about to introduce me to this fine gentleman."

With that, I turn, ignoring Ciaran entirely, and set my gaze on the man beside him. Dean Ambrose.

Dark hair, sharp green eyes, and an easy smile that speaks of confidence. He carries himself with the kind of charm that only men who know their worth possess.

We greet each other, his voice warm as he says, "The pleasure is mine, Miss Moreau. I was beginning to think this night would be dull, but then fortune decided to bring me here."

I let out a soft chuckle, lifting a brow. "Fortune, is it?"

His grin widens. "Unless you believe in fate."

"Oh, I don't," I say smoothly, sipping the last of my wine. "I believe in calculated moves, Mr. Ambrose. Destiny is just what we call the choices we don't realize we've made."

Dean's eyes glimmer with amusement, and the easy banter begins. The background hum of music sways gently, weaving through the murmured conversations of Manhattan's elite.

He leans in slightly, his voice dropping just enough to turn the exchange into something more engaging. "How's the night treating you? I imagine being the Isla Moreau comes with its own set of tedious social obligations."

I tilt my head. The Isla Moreau. How interesting.

"You're not wrong," I reply, the words airy. "But one can always find some entertainment—even in tedium."

Dean chuckles, running a hand through his dark hair. "Tell me about it. If one more old-money billionaire tries to give me unsolicited business advice, I may have to fake an emergency exit."

I smirk. "Oh? And what's your escape plan?"

"Feigning a rare and sudden allergy to pretentious bullshit."

I let out a soft laugh, shaking my head. "A common affliction in a room like this."

Dean starts to reply, his expression relaxed, but something makes me glance ever so subtly to his left—

And I find myself locked in whiskey-dark eyes.

Ciaran Valente is not smiling.

He is watching me. Assessing me. A predator in fine tailoring.

There is something about the way he stands—shoulders squared, gaze heavy with a silent challenge. Like he's waiting. Like he's daring me to look away first.

I don't.

But before Dean can continue, a smooth, low voice cuts through the conversation like a knife wrapped in silk.

"Careful, Ambrose," Ciaran says, the edges of his tone steeped in amusement. "Miss Moreau doesn't believe in fate. You wouldn't want her thinking you leave your business ventures up to the stars, would you?"

A deliberate twist. A playful hit at Dean's earlier comment.

And of course—a challenge meant entirely for me.

Ciaran meets my eyes fully now, a smirk curling at the corner of his mouth. There's something sharp in his expression, an arrogance so innate it seems woven into his very existence.

I don't take the bait immediately.

Instead, I tilt my head ever so slightly, my lips curving in a knowing smile. "Well, you'd know all about fortune, wouldn't you, Valente? Considering you've lost so much of it to me."

His smirk deepens, his hand slipping into his pocket with casual ease. "Bold of you to assume that, chérie," he murmurs, voice laced with mock sweetness. "I'd call it… a temporary imbalance."

I take a small step forward, feigning curiosity. "Is that what we're calling failure these days?"

A low chuckle escapes him. "You'd know. After all, I hear Norway wasn't too kind to you."

Ah. So he knows.

I school my expression, refusing to let the flicker of irritation show. "Oh, Valente," I sigh dramatically, swirling my empty glass, "It almost sounds like you keep tabs on me.

His gaze flickers over me, amusement curling at the edges of his lips. That mouth—that perfect, infuriatingly smug mouth—I should not be noticing. Neither should I be noticing how sharp his jaw is, how his perfectly manicured brows arch just slightly as if every word I say only fuels his amusement.

It makes my skin crawl.

"I'd hardly call it keeping tabs, Moreau," he drawls lazily. "Think of it as… watching the inevitable unfold."

A dry, humorless laugh leaves me. "The inevitable?" I echo, tilting my head. "Remind me again, Valente—wasn't it your family's grand business venture that ended up in absolute ruin thanks to me?"

His expression hardens—so brief, so barely there, but I catch it. And that is satisfying.

Beside us, Dean and the older gentleman shift, exchanging awkward glances as if caught in a battlefield with no escape. Maybe they are waiting for us to throttle each other right here in the middle of the gala.

Ciaran steps forward, close enough that I can smell the faint notes of whiskey and something sharper—something entirely him. But still, the distance remains.

He lowers his voice, his next words a warning hiss. "I wouldn't get too comfortable, chérie. The tables turn fast, and you might find yourself sitting on the losing side sooner than you think."

A cold amusement spreads through me. Trying to bruise me?

How adorable.

My lips part slightly, but I hold back the retort curling on my tongue. I will never give him the satisfaction of seeing even a glimmer of emotion—because I don't lose in a battle of wits. And certainly not to a Valente.

My fingers press into the flesh of my palm, nails digging in to keep my breathing even. I refuse to acknowledge the rush—the sheer adrenaline—that comes with throwing words like daggers at him.

"Ah," comes a polite interruption. "I believe it's time for the announcements."

The chairman, looking more than a little uneasy, gestures toward the main ballroom, subtly urging us all toward our seats.

A long moment lingers between Ciaran and me—tense, crackling, almost suffocating. He holds my stare, daring me to say just one more thing.

Instead, I lift my chin, letting a smirk tug at the corners of my lips. Then, without another word, I turn on my heel and walk away, my dress trailing behind me.

This is the first time I've met my enemy.

And I'm already plotting his murder.