ISLA

Nathan hisses, pointing a finger at me, still standing. His face is flushed, his breaths sharp and uneven.

"I suggest you choose your words wisely, Moreau," he says, voice low with warning. "You're new here. You don't want to make enemies so soon."

I offer him a slow, practiced smile.

"Nathan." I tilt my head, watching him with careful amusement. "I was born into this world. You're the one who should be careful."

His jaw tightens. He grinds his teeth so hard I half expect them to crack.

He opens his mouth, probably to say something as equally pathetic as his earlier threat, but before he can, Langford's voice slices through the tension.

"Enough," the chairman says, voice sharp with authority. "Mr. Sterling, sit down and maintain the decorum of this meeting."

Nathan turns his glare to Langford. "This isn't fair. You let a baseless allegation be shown to everyone, and now I'm just supposed to sit here and take it?"

Orlando's annoyance flickers in the slight twitch of his brow. "If you continue this tantrum, I will have no choice but to remove you from the meeting."

Nathan scoffs, shaking his head, but finally drops into his seat, still huffing like a petulant child.

Five years older than me, yet somehow, he acts far younger.

I suppress the urge to roll my eyes and glance toward Ethan's brother—Lucien Bellarose.

Lucien, the heir and CEO of Bellarose International, sits a few seats down, watching the scene unfold with mild disinterest. He and I only interact formally—his cold personality never leaving much room for warmth.

Ethan, on the other hand, would have had a field day with this.

I wish he were here.

We would have been snickering, texting under the table, trading sharp-witted commentary about Nathan's meltdown. But Ethan, being the second child, is only COO, a role he hates. He'd much rather escape to some coastal town, drink expensive wine, and pretend he isn't a Bellarose.

Langford clears his throat, commanding the room's attention once again.

"Now, moving forward," he announces, "I want to hear your insights on the proposed strategies for resource allocation in volatile markets. How do we ensure economic stability while maintaining our control? Thoughts?"

I straighten, smoothing a hand down my blazer. This is my chance.

Without hesitating, I speak first, my voice steady, poised.

"We need to approach resource allocation with adaptability. Rigid frameworks won't survive unpredictable markets, so we should shift toward dynamic investment strategies—leveraging AI-driven forecasting models and prioritizing liquid assets over high-risk ventures. By maintaining economic fluidity, we ensure dominance without overcommitting to failing sectors."

Murmurs rise around the room. A few heads nod. Some exchange glances. Good.

Orion McGinnis, seated to my left, leans slightly toward me, skimming through the report before speaking.

"Your point on dynamic investments is interesting, Miss Moreau," he says, voice smooth, but pointed. "But you mentioned AI-driven forecasting. That relies on historical data, which is inherently biased. How do you account for external market shocks?"

A valid question.

I answer swiftly, explaining how adaptability should pair with real-time geopolitical analysis and predictive modeling, allowing companies to adjust before market crashes.

More nods. More murmurs. Even Lucien Bellarose lifts his gaze slightly from his papers, watching with interest.

And then—

Ciaran Valente's voice cuts through the room like a knife. Deep. Smooth. Amused.

"That's cute, Moreau."

I still, my fingers curling slightly against the armrest.

"Excuse me?"

He leans forward slightly, one arm resting on the table, exuding pure arrogance.

"Your idea sounds good on paper," he muses, his eyes dark with amusement. "But in practice? It's a dream. Predictive models only go so far. You can't 'analyze' a government coup in real-time. You can't 'forecast' the irrationality of war. Businesses that hesitate—fail."

His words hang in the air. Daring. Testing.

I don't hesitate.

I offer him a cool smile. "And what exactly do you suggest, Mr. Valente? Brute force and blind ambition?"

His smirk widens. "Brute force built empires, Moreau. Your data models won't protect your assets when a country decides to rewrite its laws overnight. You need control. Leverage. The right hands in the right governments."

A muscle ticks in my jaw.

He's not wrong.

But I'm not about to let him win.

I tilt my head, feigning thoughtfulness. "So your answer is corruption. How charming."

A chuckle. Low. Dangerous.

"Not corruption, Isla Moreau. Power. Try to keep up."

I open my mouth to retort, but Orlando raises a hand.

"That's enough."

I snap my mouth shut.

Orlando's gaze moves between us, unreadable, before he sighs.

"We'll move forward. I want further insights before we finalize projections."

Just like that, the discussion shifts, but my mind doesn't.

This isn't like me.

I'm not impulsive. I'm not the type to lose my composure over one person. In business, I am always measured, always collected. I've been sitting in boardrooms since I could walk, listening to my father and brother negotiate deals with men twice their age and twice as desperate.

But somehow, whenever Ciaran Valente is involved, I can't be calm.

He disrupts my logic. Needles under my skin. Pushes me just to see how far I'll go.

I exhale slowly and refocus. Around the room, others continue offering their insights, one after another.

Orlando listens with calm attentiveness, nodding along, his fingers laced together as he weighs each argument. When the discussion wraps up, he offers his own thoughts, acknowledging my point but also—because of course—finding Ciaran's stance 'intriguing.'

Tch.

Orlando leans forward slightly. "Now, we all know why we're here."

A weighted silence settles over the room.

Of course, we do.

The International Business Consortium is more than about partnerships or economic strategies. It's about the Trident. Power. Leverage. Dominance. And whoever proves themselves in these discussions earns influence that others can only dream of.

Orlando's eyes sweep the table before he continues, tone even but sharp.

"Let's put theory into practice. I'll present a situation, and I want to hear how you would handle it. Your response will determine how well you understand control—not just in business, but in influence."

He pauses. Then presents the scenario.

"Imagine there's a critical raw material supplier in Eastern Europe—one that half of you in this room rely on—has abruptly decided to double its prices. Their country is experiencing economic turmoil, and they cite it as justification. If you refuse to pay, your competitors will, leaving you at a disadvantage. If you agree, you set a precedent for future exploitation. What do you do?"

A tricky one.

I glance toward Ciaran Valente.

He sits relaxed yet imposing, one hand idly twirling a pen between his fingers, the other supporting his face. Brooding. Like he already knows exactly how this will play out.

I look away, thinking.

The room falls silent as everyone processes the situation. Fifteen minutes pass before the discussion begins.

And of course, Ciaran Valente speaks first.

"You take them down before they can dictate your price." His voice is deep, smooth, and absolute. "The second you let desperation rule your decisions, you lose."

The room is dead silent.

He leans forward, his gaze dark. "First, you infiltrate. Secure political leverage in their country—fund opposition parties, manipulate local media, make them unstable. Then, you quietly invest in their competitors and slowly drive them to irrelevance. Within a year, their entire operation will be in your hands, and you'll set the price."

I hate that it's so ruthless.

I hate even more that it's effective.

His words are so precise, so viciously efficient, that no one immediately counters him. Even I find myself searching for loopholes.

There aren't any.

Damn him.

Then, finally, Lucien Bellarose speaks for the first time.

His expression is unreadable, cold behind his wire-framed glasses. He adjusts them slightly, his voice quiet but firm.

"There is a less volatile way."

Ciaran raises a brow, intrigued but unimpressed.

Lucien continues. "Instead of forcing destabilization, which requires risk, you propose an alliance with another economic powerhouse—one that can offer the supplier an alternative safety net. You remove their desperation by providing controlled relief, but with conditions that tie them exclusively to you."

It's a careful approach. Less risk, more diplomacy.

Ciaran scoffs.

"That's safe." He tilts his head, his smirk sharp. "And temporary. The second another player offers them a better deal, they'll walk."

Lucien doesn't react. "Business isn't just about control, Valente. It's about long-term sustainability."

Ciaran exhales a soft laugh. "And that's exactly why I'll always be ten steps ahead of you."

Lucien Bellarose doesn't flinch. His expression remains unreadable, his posture perfectly composed.

"And that mindset, Valente, is exactly why your empire is built on risk rather than longevity."

There's murmurs of intrigue and challenge. But Ciaran only smiles.

"Longevity?" His voice is smooth, deceptively calm. He leans forward, his forearms resting on the table, his fingers laced together in a display of effortless dominance. "Bellarose, power isn't about how long you hold it—it's about who you take it from. And I don't play to last. I play to win."

The words cut through the room like a blade.

Lucien's lips press into a thin line, but he says nothing else. Because what is there to say? Ciaran has always played dirty. A true Valente.

The tension is thick enough to choke on, but I don't let it suffocate me.

Instead, I speak.