ISLA
Flames devour everything. They rise higher and higher, a monstrous inferno consuming not just our home but the very foundation of my life. The heat bites at my skin even from a distance, its wicked tendrils taunting me to flee, to give in, to abandon all hope. But I can't. I stand frozen outside the house, my chest heaving with sobs that refuse to calm, no matter how many times Jasper, my loyal butler, tries to console me. "Miss Isla," he pleads, his hands firm on my shoulders, his voice trembling with desperation. But nothing he says registers. All I can think about is Mathieu—my brother, my heartbeat, my everything—trapped in there. I clutch at the firefighters as they rush past, begging, screaming at them to bring him to me. "Please," I cry, my voice breaking into shards. "He's in there! He's in there!" One of them pauses, his soot-covered face grim as he looks down at me. "We're doing everything we can," he says, but his words sound hollow. It happened so quickly. Barely half an hour ago, Jasper burst into my room, his face pale with terror as he dragged me out, leaving everything behind—my books, my desk, my entire world still intact. I stumbled down the grand staircase, not understanding why the air felt so heavy, why the corridors were choked with the acrid scent of smoke. But then, through the haze, I saw it. The fire, blazing with a cruel hunger, climbing the walls I grew up around, devouring the tapestries, the chandeliers, and the memories that had once made this house a home. Outside now, safe but suffocating, I realized what Jasper did not. Mathieu wasn't there. He hadn't escaped. I try to run back, my instinct stronger than my reason, but Jasper pulls me back, his arms an unyielding cage. "You can't, Miss Isla. It's not safe." "I don't care!" I scream, fighting against him. My nails dig into his arms, my voice cracks with desperation, and yet he doesn't let go. My brother is in there. I know he is. He needs me. A firefighter appears in front of me, his helmet dented, his uniform smeared with soot and sweat. For a moment, my heart leaps with hope. But when I see the look in his eyes, everything inside me crumbles. "We couldn't find anyone," he says quietly. My legs give way beneath me. "No," I whisper. "You don't understand. He's still in there. You have to—" "We searched everywhere," he interrupts gently but firmly. "The fire... it's spread too fast. I'm sorry." Sorry. A meaningless word. It cuts through me, a dagger laced with finality. My knees hit the ground, but I don't feel the pain. I clutch the grass, the dirt, anything to steady myself as reality closes in around me like the smoke filling that house. "Mathieu!" I scream until my throat burns. Again. And again. My voice cracks, but I keep yelling. Maybe if he hears me, he'll find a way out. He always does. He promised me he'd always protect me. He promised. Time becomes meaningless. Minutes stretch into hours, each one more excruciating than the last. The fire dwindles at last, the angry flames reduced to smoldering embers. All that remains of my home is a skeleton of ashes, blackened beams, and smoke spiraling into the night sky. I sit motionless on the ground, staring at the ruins, my heart hollow and cold. My brother is gone. Gone. I can't accept it, won't let it settle in my chest. Mathieu can't be dead. He can't. Tears have stopped flowing, dried by the heat of the fire and the suffocating weight of grief. The world feels eerily quiet, save for the distant murmurs of the firefighters and the crackle of dying embers. My parents aren't here. They don't even know yet. How do I tell them that the fire took him? That it didn't spare him, didn't leave me one thing, one piece of my family to hold on to? But even as my heart breaks, some small part of me refuses to believe it. Refuses to accept that Mathieu is gone. Somewhere in those ashes, in the wreckage, a whisper of hope lingers. Because if I let myself believe otherwise, the fire won't just have taken my brother. It will have taken the rest of me too.Nine Years LaterRed.It is everywhere, drenching the room in its rich, provocative splendor. Red, like the taste of dark cherries and the burn of vintage wine. Red, like whispered temptations and silent threats lurking behind polite smiles. The color of love and war. Of passion and destruction.Of blood.Women glide through the space in floor-length gowns of ruby and crimson, their lips painted dark, curling around the rims of champagne flutes as they laugh—light, carefree, unaware or perhaps indifferent to the dangerous undercurrents weaving through the air. Conversations drip with subtle power plays, quiet seductions, veiled warnings. It is a world of elegance and cruelty, wrapped in the scent of expensive perfume and aged whiskey.And I am in the center of it all.The weight of gazes settles on me the moment I enter, admiration laced with fear. It has taken years—nine long, grueling years—to rebuild what was lost, to shape the ashes of my past into something indomitable. The name
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 anothe
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
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
"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—agai
The moment Arthur Orlando poses the question—who among us will lead this change, and at what cost?—the discussion ignites like a match to gasoline.Gerald Henderson, the CEO of Henderson Co., clears his throat and begins. "The key to global market expansion lies in aggressive acquisitions and leveraging existing corporate influence. There are two essential strategies we must prioritize: first, securing partnerships with rising economies before our competitors do, and second, implementing controlled mergers to absorb smaller yet promising enterprises."Before he can elaborate further, a smooth voice interjects."That's an outdated mindset, Gerald," Nathan Sterling, owner of Sterling Global Holdings, counters with a measured smirk. "You talk about absorption, but what you fail to acknowledge is that dominance isn't about buying power alone. It's about influence. The real key to global expansion isn't just acquiring businesses—it's controlling the environment they operate in. Government
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 c
"Power is about control, Valente, not destruction."My voice is clear, steady, sharp. I don't look away from him, don't give him the satisfaction of thinking he's the only one in this room who understands power.Ciaran's expression shifts. The smirk fades. His brows knit slightly, as if my words actually require thought. As if he didn't expect me to counter him.I take it further. "You believe eliminating competition is the key to dominance. But what you're forgetting is that in business, chaos is not control—it's desperation."I see the slight flex of his jaw. I tilt my chin, my voice unwavering. "A true leader doesn't need to eliminate threats to stay on top. They mold the battlefield to their advantage. Turn adversaries into assets. That's power." Ciaran Valente's gaze is piercing and it irritates me to the very core. He raises a brow. "And what happens when your so-called assets turn against you, Moreau?" His voice is low and taunting. "When they sink their teeth into the hand t
The dining table is covered with an obscene amount of food, like we're hosting a fucking banquet instead of just two people sitting across from each other in stifling silence. Fresh oysters on a bed of crushed ice. Lobster thermidor, its golden crust glistening under the chandelier light. Seared scallops drizzled with truffle butter. Wagyu steak, cooked to perfection, sliced thin. A bottle of Château Margaux sits between us, the deep red of the wine almost mocking in its elegance. It's all high-end, perfectly curated by Maria, but none of it makes me hungry. I pull out my chair at the far end of the table, settling in as my father sits opposite me. His blazer is draped over the chair behind him, his brooding expression set in stone, the same fucking look he always wears like it's a second skin. Maria moves around the table, serving the food. No one else is allowed to do it. She's been in charge of this house since before I could walk, and even now, she's the only person my father
Fuck.I should've walked away the moment she ran that pretty mouth of hers.But Isla Moreau is a goddamn menace—one that knows exactly how to test me.The way she tilts her chin in defiance, her pulse fluttering beneath my fingers, drives something sharp and volatile through me. A challenge. One I'm dangerously close to accepting.Her eyes, blue and fucking daring, hold mine like she's just as willing to play this game.She has no fucking idea.I tighten my grip—just enough to feel the slight hitch in her breath. Not enough to hurt, but enough to remind her exactly who she's provoking."Do you really want to find out?" I murmur, my voice low, taunting.She doesn't back down.Of course, she doesn't.Her lips part slightly, her breathing uneven, and for a split second, I wonder what kind of sounds she'd make if I took this further. If I leaned in, if I bit that sharp little tongue of hers just to shut her up.I exhale through my nose, forcing myself to pull back before I do something st
Ciaran Valente looks around my office like he's examining an artifact in a museum, his gaze sharp, assessing. His eyes move over the space, from the floor-to-ceiling windows to the minimalist shelves and the sleek, white furniture that fills the room. I sit on the pristine couch and gesture for him to do the same.He takes his seat across from me, his dark suit stretching over the white cushion in a way that looks almost out of place. Like a stain, I think, though I keep the thought to myself."Nice office," he says, voice lazy, edged with something that could pass as sarcasm.I don't bother responding.Instead, I clear my throat, placing the document for the Consortium Project on the glass table between us. The construction is set to take place in Washington, D.C., meaning we'll need to make a trip for on-site assessments. But before that, we need to align on the fundamental aspects.I rise from my seat, walking over to my desk to grab the blueprint. I feel his eyes on me the entire
Today is the day.A Valente will step foot inside Moreau Enterprise.Ciaran Valente.My enemy. My nemesis. And the very thought of him inside my space makes my skin crawl.I stand by the floor-length window, arms crossed, staring out at the city skyline, but my mind is anywhere but peaceful. The man who has annoyed me, challenged me, and made me want to throw things in frustration will soon be here."You're going to bore a hole in the glass," Andy jokes, stepping inside my office.I blink, dragging my attention away from the window to find him grinning.He leans against the edge of my desk, arms crossed, his eyes filled with nothing but amusement. "It's a historical day."I frown, unimpressed. "It's just a meeting."Andy whistles, shaking his head. "Just a meeting? Boss, do you know how active everyone is today? The employees are working as if the president is visiting. Hell, even the janitors went the extra mile. The whole building is spotless."I narrow my eyes. "And?"He smirks. "A
Orlando can't joke to save his life.Yet, he laughs, amused by whatever ridiculous thing he just said, completely oblivious to the fact that it wasn't even remotely funny.I don't laugh. Don't even bother with a half-smile. I just sit back in my chair, fingers tapping idly against the armrest, my attention flickering away from him—to something else. Someone else.Across from me, Isla Moreau wears a neutral expression, though there's a faint curve of her lips—more out of courtesy than amusement. I bet she thinks Orlando's jokes are as bad as I do, but unlike me, she plays along.We're sitting in the guest room of his house, one of many I've been in over the years. I don't remember which one we were in last time, nor do I particularly care. The decor is pristine, polished to perfection, much like the man himself.Orlando settles his teacup onto the glass table, the soft clink cutting through the silence. Folding his fingers together, he looks between the two of us with a measured gaze.
Éclipse is the hottest club in the city, a place where power and indulgence intertwine beneath flashing neon lights.The moment we step inside—through the VIP entrance, of course—my nostrils are assaulted by a mix of smoke, sweat, and something sharp and unpleasant, like cheap cologne mingling with stale alcohol. The bass-heavy music vibrates through the air, a pulsing rhythm that seems to dictate the movement of the crowd below.From the elevated VIP section, I glance down at the dance floor, where bodies are packed together, moving in chaotic harmony, lost in the beat like they have nowhere else to be. My heels click against the sleek black-tiled floor as we make our way to our reserved area, the dim lighting casting shadows that dance along the plush, moody interior.Sophia leans in close, her lips brushing my ear as she teases, "You're already frowning, deary. Try to look like you want to be here."I wince at her words, but say nothing.Our section is tucked away in a more exclusi
"You're going to cut through the plate," Sophia teases, amusement lacing her tone.I blink, looking down at my plate, only now realizing how tightly I'm gripping the knife. The poor steak is nearly butchered under my aggression. Exhaling, I set my utensils down and take a sip of my white wine, letting the chilled liquid coat my throat. But not even the finest Chardonnay can wash away the irritation simmering inside me.All thanks to a certain insufferable man.Sophia eyes me knowingly. "It's better to tell me who's making you plot someone's murder than to let you sit here and stew in your thoughts."I sigh. She's not wrong. But saying his name out loud will only make it worse.Sophia had returned from her business trip yesterday, and as always, she's effortlessly stunning—golden brown hair styled to perfection, her sharp brown eyes glinting with mischief. She winks at me, the corner of her red lips lifting in a smirk.I try to smile back, but my mood is still bruised from my earlier h
The Ritz-Carlton, Manhattan. A fucking fortress of power. Not just a place to sleep, but a temple where the city's wealthiest come to play, where deals are sealed over five-thousand-dollar bottles of Macallan, and where the scent of polished mahogany and money lingers in the air.The hallway stretches long in both directions, lined with men in tailored suits and women in sleek, custom-made dresses. They walk like they own the world because, in some way, they do. Even the waitstaff look like they were plucked from a damn fashion editorial, their crisp uniforms likely costing more than an average month's rent.I remember the first time I stepped foot in this place. I was ten. My father and older brother were here for a meeting, and they sure as hell didn't want a kid tagging along. I had whined and tugged at my brother's sleeve until he caved, dragging me along with a sharp warning to keep my mouth shut. I didn't, of course. I had too many goddamn questions, and by the time the meeting
Arthur Orlando's house is nothing short of breathtaking. A masterpiece of Victorian architecture, it stands tall with its grand façade, intricate stone carvings, and towering bay windows. The wrought-iron gates open to a long cobblestone driveway, lined with pristine hedges and marble statues, each one a relic of a bygone era. The mansion itself exudes wealth, the kind that is old and unwavering, the kind that makes you feel small in its presence.For ten minutes, I just stand there, taking it all in—the soaring turrets, the ornate balconies, the sheer weight of history embedded in every brick.I exhale, breaking my trance. "Andy, remind me why we don't live in houses like this?"My secretary, standing beside me, adjusts his tie, lips twitching with amusement. "Because you have a company to run, and no time to gawk at fancy buildings."I roll my eyes but start walking up the grand steps, Andy following. The heavy wooden doors swing open before I can knock, and inside, a row of perfec