ADRIEN'S POV
Family.Duty. Legacy. Power.
These are the four pillars behind the Laurent family, who has weathered wars, recessions, and changes of regime. Looking back, every world-changing event that happened — the Laurents simply adapted. People call us chameleons, demons, devil worshippers, lizards.
But what the Laurents actually did was follow a simple law from the beginning: "Leave nothing to what if. Defend and strike."
As a result, the Laurent family's bloodline — once a fallen French noble household — is now, 220 years later, celebrating 200 years of Laurent Corporation. And I, Adrien Aurélien Laurent, am the eldest son of the current Patriarch, Vice Chairman at the age of 34.
And currently, I am watching the ballroom burn to ashes right before my eyes from the hotel garden. Guests behind me are screaming and crying in relief that they managed to escape before the fire broke out.
Ashy metallic smoke fills the air, lighting up the night sky.
"We survived a disaster, Adrien." Killian whispers next to me, his hair disheveled, tie discarded.
"Did Mom reach home safely?" I ask calmly. Killian nods.
I let out a small breath of relief, the back of my head throbbing. "Dad is going to throw a fit."
Killian pauses mid-sip and looks at me with a dry expression. "Adrien, you should be thankful nothing happened to your mother — or else your dad would have... hah, he would have burned down everything."
I tilt my head. "Why else do you think I asked about her first? I can handle a hundred arsons, but not my father's madness when it comes to my mother."
Surprising? Not really.
While infidelity is commonplace in high society, my father's obsession with my mother is well known. Nobody messes with Madame Laurent. Seven children don't pop out of thin air, after all.
"What are you going to do for her?"
Killian tilts his chin. I follow his gaze and it lands on her — Beatrice, sitting on the ground, tending to Sophia's arm while Mr. Jonathan keeps thanking her.
Her dark brown hair messily tied in a bun, eyes steady and warm as she laughs softly when Sophia hugs her, crying. Ash on her cheek, dress dirty with mud and smoke.
When I first saw her at the entrance tonight, I never thought that by the end of it, she would save not just my life — but everyone else's too.
"Adrien, you're staring."
I blink slowly, almost as if carving this moment into my memory. She feels my gaze and turns her head slightly. Our eyes meet. Her breath catches, eyes wide — carrying a silent fire of something I can't name.
"She's weird," I mutter. Killian narrows his eyes at me suspiciously. "The last time I checked, you called me weird too."
I roll my eyes and elbow his stomach, making him groan. "Give her a reward."
"Money?"
Money is a double-edged sword. It either keeps a person loyal or makes them feel used. Neither feels right when it comes to her.
"No. Get Angel to arrange a fully furnished three-bedroom apartment on Fifth Avenue, all costs covered for the next five years. Move her to my floor — she reports directly to me from now on."
Killian nods. "You're going to keep her loyal to you, aren't you?"
A smirk plays on my lips as I glance back at Beatrice. Her eyes are heavy with sleep, yawning like a kitten tired of exploring the world all day.
Adorable.
"She's adorable," I murmur — almost unconsciously. Killian, busy on a call, either doesn't hear it or chooses to ignore it.
I look back at the flames, now slowly coming under the control of the firefighters. Interesting. Someone has been planning to bring down the Laurent family. I can't shake the thought of what would have happened if Beatrice hadn't noticed that kerosene trail.
When I'd called the head of security, he was on his feet instantly. Our family's hidden personal security team swept into position. It turned out every door and window surrounding the ballroom had been jammed, each one a death trap. Only five were caught — now held in the underground prison outside New York.
I put a cigarette between my lips. The nicotine feels useless tonight. This strange ripple in my chest... I can't take my eyes off this woman.
Is it awe? Gratitude? Or something else entirely? She hasn't looked my way again — almost as if deliberately escaping my gaze.
"The car is here. Let's go." Killian tugs my arm and I nod. Right. I can figure out this unnamed feeling later. Right now, all that matters is getting answers out of those bastards.
The car ride is smooth, the air thick with the smoke of my fourth cigarette. My assistant, Angel Blake — 27 years old, former Special Forces officer, working under me for the past three years — speaks in her clipped, professional tone about the damage from the arson and the mixed reactions from guests: rage and gratitude in equal measure.
I listen with my eyes closed. I should be fully focused. I am, mostly — but not entirely.
All I can think about is a 5'3" woman in a white satin dress. Bright brown eyes, a jawline softened at the edges, a small nose, small lips.
My finger twitches. Everything about her is small — yet that woman's bravery... Anyone else from her background, with no ties to this world of blood and power, would have fled in a panic.
"Boss..."
"...Boss."
I hum, and Angel continues. Breathe in, breathe out. The car stops after a good two-hour drive. I step out — soil muddy beneath my shoes.
I look at Angel. "I believe I ordered them taken to the underground prison. Not a cow farm."
Angel meets my gaze evenly. "The Chairman ordered them brought here."
Of course he did. The smell of manure overwhelms the air. A massive farm at the outskirts of New York — from the outside, completely ordinary. Clean, sanitized, greenery everywhere, lights dimmed low for the livestock. But past the meat processing room lies a hidden chamber, concealed behind the mundane business of a working farm.
"AHHHH — NO — PLEASE, JUST LET ME DIE — AHHHH!"
A deep sigh leaves my mouth. Seriously, Dad. I'll be cleaning up after you again.
Voices full of agony, pleading for death over whatever is happening inside — at my father's hands. I don't even pity them. Angel stands behind me. Two guards wait at the door for my father's signal.
The screams grow louder.
Thunk. Thunk. Thunk.
Then — silence.
Angel releases a long breath she'd been holding since we entered. The door opens, revealing none other than my father — Ludwig Dominik Laurent.
"Ah, Son. You should have come a little later. I was just—" He lets out a nervous laugh, eyeing one of his men to hand over a coat, covering the blood on his shirt and arms.
I press my tongue to the inside of my cheek. "Dad. You do realize those men could have been useful."
He shrugs, washing his hands like it's any ordinary Tuesday. "They dared to put my wife and son in danger. What made you think I'd let them live?"
My father. The man regarded as the King of Wall Street, Chairman of Laurent Corporation. The expected behaviour from such a man: cold, emotionally distant, ruthless.
And yet — even at 60, he looks no older than 40. Salt-and-pepper hair styled with careless ease, wrinkles that lend him gravitas rather than age, icy blue eyes, a trimmed beard, a body that rivals men half his years.
Women — young and old — throw themselves at him. And what does he do? Avoids them. Ignores them. Comes home to be fussed over by my mother.
"Dad, please let me handle these things." I look down at the bodies now being carried into the surrounding woods. I signal Angel, who takes charge of the cleanup. No evidence, no problem.
Dad looks at me, water still dripping from his hair after a quick shower, now dressed in clean clothes. He punches my shoulder with a wide grin. "Boy, your father is still strong. You think I need help from someone like you?"
I narrow my eyes. Of course he needs me. Who does he think cleans up his messes?
He just grins, and I can only sigh from somewhere deep in my stomach.
"Those bastards were trying to worsen things between us and the Schweitzers — make it look like they were behind the attack."
My shoulders stiffen. Dad notices immediately, his grin softening into something more understanding. "Adrien. They won't."
I clench my fist, nails pressing into my palm like a reminder of a past I desperately want to erase.
"I know. That bastard isn't that stupid," I murmur.
Dad says nothing more and pats my back, looking up at the sky. I unclench my jaw. Inhale. Exhale. Four times, until the tension in my spine settles.
Wind stirs the grass, silver under bright moonlight. I look up beside him — sky dark, yet lit with countless stars.
"I heard a girl from Jonathan's department saved everyone."
I blink slowly, still looking at the moon. Beatrice's fierce eyes. The untamed fire in them that stirred something in me I've never felt before. Everything feels quieter now — duller — compared to the woman who kept an entire family from being dragged into war.
"Yeah. She found the kerosene trail and told me."
He nods. "I trust you've seen to rewarding her."
"I have."
Dad's brow furrows slightly as he studies my face, but neither of us says anything more. The night settles around us, and only the whisper of her name moves through my thoughts — restless and unresolved.