ISLA

It's everywhere.

The tabloids, the magazines, the news—every goddamn place I look.

With an annoyed sigh, I toss the newspaper onto the glass table in front of me, the pages fluttering in the soft morning breeze. My fingers reach up, pushing my sunglasses into my hair as I lean back against the lounge chair. The sun is warm, bright but not too bright for my liking. I should be enjoying this moment. But, of course, peace is a luxury I rarely afford.

A shadow shifts near the terrace entrance. The servant. She waits, poised at a respectful distance, hands clasped in front of her.

"Bring me a glass of lemonade," I say, my voice laced with tired indifference.

She nods. "Sí, Miss Moreau. I will bring it in five minutes." And then she disappears back inside the house, leaving me to my thoughts.

Eight hours. That's all it's been since the gala, yet the news has spread like wildfire. As if people had nothing better to talk about than the mere fact that I—Isla Moreau—stood mere inches apart from a Valente. The whispers, the speculations, the exaggerations—it's exhausting.

I press my fingers to my temple, feeling a dull ache brewing beneath my skull.

As if summoned by my misery, Jasper appears, walking toward me with his usual briskness, his crisp gray suit pristine despite the heat. "Miss Isla," he starts, voice steady but tinged with hesitation. "I've been receiving calls nonstop this morning. Do you want me to address it, or should I let it be?"

I wave a dismissive hand. "Ignore it. It's not necessary."

Jasper nods, though his brows furrow slightly. "Your father called earlier. He wants you to return his call."

I sigh, tilting my head back against the chair, staring at the sky for a fleeting moment before shifting upright. "Alright. I'll call him."

With a curt nod, Jasper walks away, and I groan quietly to myself. The last thing I want this morning is this much attention. Snatching my phone from the glass table—where a plate of untouched fruit still sits—I dial my father's number.

The line rings twice before the familiar deep voice filters through the speaker. "Mija."

There it is. That quiet pull of emotion.

"Hi, Dad."

"I saw the news." His tone is casual, but I know him well enough to hear the unspoken concern layered beneath it. "I take it nothing serious happened last night?"

I breathe out a soft chuckle, resting my elbow on the armrest, my fingers tapping against my temple. "Nothing to worry about. It went how it should have."

A pause. "And the necklace?"

I roll my eyes, though he can't see it. Of course, he brings up the necklace.

During last night's gala, there had been an auction—an extravagant display of luxury, as always. Among the pieces was something truly exceptional: the red diamond necklace.

A masterpiece.

A stunner.

The perfect gift for my mother. She's always adored diamonds, and that necklace would've suited her beautifully. Naturally, I decided to claim it. And when a Moreau decides something, others tend to step aside.

Except someone didn't.

Someone dared to compete.

And of course, it was Ciaran fucking Valente.

The bidding started at one million, then rose to three. Five. Seven. Ten. The numbers climbed, tension thickening between us as we silently refused to yield.

If it had been anyone else, I wouldn't have wasted my breath. But this? This was him.

And if there's anything I refuse to do, it's back down from a Valente.

But then, at the very last moment, when the numbers began reaching ridiculous levels, I let my expression shift—to boredom. To disinterest. And, with the smallest smirk, I tossed my bid aside.

Ciaran could have it.

A pity token. A momentary victory to feed his ego.

But I knew—oh, I knew—he saw through my little act.

I didn't care.

"You shouldn't dwell on it too much, mija," my father says gently, snapping me out of my thoughts.

I exhale a slow breath, leaning back again. "It wasn't worth the price."

Another pause. Then, his tone softens, warmth laced in his voice. "Your mother and I miss you. You should visit us soon."

That gentle ache rises in my chest again. I press my fingers against my glass, my other hand resting on my stomach. "I'll come over the weekend."

After that night, my parents were never the same. Grief clung to them like shadows. My mother—once a woman of poise and laughter—retreated into silence. She still takes therapy sessions, though she claims it's only once a month. My father never says it, but I know he watches her closely, making sure she doesn't drown in memories too heavy to carry.

They live at our summer house now—a breathtaking estate far from Manhattan's chaos. And I?

I live in this house.

The same house that was once burned and broken.

The same house that took everything from me.

It took years, but I rebuilt it, brick by brick. I refused to let it go. Because my brother—Mathieu—is still here.

Maybe not physically. Maybe not in any way that people understand.

But I feel him.

And that's enough reason to stay.

"How's Mom?" I ask, trying to shift the conversation.

My father hums. "She's in her Pilates session right now."

A small smile tugs at my lips. "God. She still does that?"

He chuckles, and for a second, everything feels normal. "You know how she is."

A faint shuffle sounds from the side, and then the house staff arrives, placing my lemonade onto the table beside me.

Before we hang up, my father speaks again, voice quieter this time. "It's better if you keep your distance from the Valentes, Isla. You know how things are."

I know. I know.

But it's too late.

I nod absently. "I'll see you this weekend, Dad."

The call ends, and I sit there, staring at the skyline, my fingers idly tapping against the glass of lemonade.

He's right.

I should be keeping my distance from the Valentes. I always have. Even though our families have struck at each other in business—sabotaged deals, blocked partnerships, outbid on crucial investments—we've maintained an unspoken rule: distance. Never direct confrontation. Never a moment where the world could capture us standing side by side.

And yet, last night, we did.

And now, the media won't shut up about it.

I exhale sharply, finishing the last sip of my lemonade before setting the glass down. My phone is already in my hand, thumb hovering over Andy's number. I need him to handle the press. Not remove the headlines—I don't care enough for that—but at least make sure they stay out of my goddamn face.

Moreau and Valente: The Rivalry in Flesh.

A Collision of Empires: Isla Moreau and Ciaran Valente Face to Face.

Decades of Feud Brought to Life at the Gala—What's Next?

The absurdity of it all makes my headache worse.

I'm about to hit dial when my phone vibrates. An incoming call.

I don't check the name, just press speaker and lean back against the lounge chair.

And then, a familiar voice spills through, all honeyed amusement.

"Isla, darling. You're everywhere this morning."

Sophie.

I close my eyes, sighing. "If you're calling to talk about the news, no lo hagas—don't start."

A playful snicker comes from the other end. "Oh, come on. How did it feel seeing him in the flesh?"

Boring. Irritating. Infuriating.

"Like standing next to a particularly expensive piece of furniture. Overpriced, pointless, and taking up space."

Sophie laughs, a bright, knowing sound. "And yet, that overpriced furniture you couldn't stop staring at."

My eyes snap open.

Fuck.

Ciaran Valente's gaze flickers in my mind—sharp, dark, taunting. The way he'd looked at me across the ballroom, a smirk curling at his lips, like he already knew how this game would play out.

I press my fingers to my temple. "I hate you."

Sophie hums. "No, you don't. But I do love how everyone is talking about you two. The tension, the rivalry, the drama—it's almost cinematic."

I roll my eyes. "You shouldn't be giving much heed to it."

"How could I not? You and Valente, in the same room? It's history in the making."

I huff, shifting the conversation before she can keep this nonsense going. "What are you doing this afternoon?"

"A business meeting," she says with a sigh. "And even if I were free, I couldn't see you. You're on the other side of the earth, remember? America."

"Ah, right," I murmur. Sophie is in Europe, handling one of her family's ventures.

We talk for a few more minutes, her teasing me about my "new favorite enemy" while I pointedly ignore her, until we eventually say our goodbyes.

Hanging up, I push myself to my feet, brushing off the imaginary weight of the conversation. I walk inside, straight to my bedroom.

It's past nine.

And tomorrow—the International Business Consortium Meeting.

A crucial one.

Every name that matters will be there—billionaires, CEOs, heirs to the world's most powerful conglomerates. The kind of gathering where a single deal, a single misstep, can shift the entire playing field. And if I want the Moreau name to hold its position—if I want to dominate that table—I need to be ready.

So today?

Today is about strategy.

First, reviewing the key players—who's in, who's out, who's looking for alliances, and who's on the verge of collapse. Jasper will have all the reports compiled.

Second, financial power plays. Mergers, acquisitions—understanding where leverage exists and who is desperate enough to make a deal.

And third—the art of war.

Because business is war.

As Lao Tzu said in his book Tao Te Ching, "Know when to move forward, when to retreat, and when to let the enemy defeat himself."

It's all about strategy. Anticipation. Precision.

And tomorrow, I intend to win.