ADRIEN'S POV
"While I appreciate the reasoning behind it, I'll have to refuse the wardrobe offer."
Smooth, professional, and completely unapologetic. Beatrice's voice doesn't waver delivering those words — if anything, there's a subtle undercurrent of arrogance in her tone. Not entitlement. Something quieter than that.
The voice of a woman who knows her own worth and has no intention of lowering it — even at the risk of offending me.
My lips twitch.
"If you say so. Follow me. Have you gone through the PDF Angel sent?"
I lift my coat from the couch and slide into it. She nods. "Yes. What do you need from me?"
"What are your strengths?"
She blinks — caught off guard, not expecting the question at all. Her lips press together briefly. "Numbers. And talking nonsense."
I have to actively bite down a grin. Talking nonsense. And yet she speaks as little as possible, rationing her words like a resource she refuses to waste carelessly.
"Good. I need you to exhaust those Gulf executives with your nonsense — just enough that they come down on the price of the oil they want us to purchase and refine."
Her eyes flick toward me. She nods without a single follow-up question, already filing the expectation away somewhere behind those steady brown eyes.
This woman.
I catch myself before I let that thought go any further. She follows me to the elevator, where Angel is already waiting, files in hand, launching immediately into her briefing.
I asked for a capable assistant. Somehow I ended up with one who doesn't appear to have an off switch.
"Negotiations may be more difficult than anticipated — Schweitzer has inserted themselves into this deal."
My expression darkens. Jaw tightens.
Of course he has. Moving in as a so-called financier, threading in conditions that quietly turn the other party into his instrument. From the corner of my eye I glance at Beatrice.
She stands completely still. Calm in a way that suggests nothing in this world has ever truly rattled her.
Let's see if bringing you on was the right call.
We settle into the car. Manhattan moves past the windows in its usual relentless blur.
Beatrice glances at me. "Vice Chairman."
"Mm."
"What exactly do you want me to do today?"
I turn my head toward her. "I already told you."
"Talking won't close a deal if the opposition is strong enough."
I narrow my eyes. Her word choices are always interesting. I shift to face her properly. "What would you suggest?"
She taps her chin with one finger, a loose curl falling across her cheek before she tucks it back. "Divide and rule."
Angel pauses her typing from the passenger seat. "Ms. Kenz, this isn't a game."
"It works, though." Beatrice's tone is unhurried. "We create a narrative — one where Schweitzer is the predator trying to dominate our client, and we arrive as the alternative. Not as buyers who need their oil, but as partners who are choosingthem despite having other options."
Something sharp moves through my chest. A quiet, unfamiliar rush.
I hadn't thought of it that way. Reframing the entire dynamic — positioning ourselves as the generous party rather than the interested one.
Angel catches my eye in the rearview mirror. "Boss, it's a risk."
A risk. Perhaps.
"Worst case, we lose a two-billion-dollar contract," Beatrice says simply. "Best case — we win it on our terms."
And I finally catch that bastard off guard.
The car stops outside a forty-story steel and glass tower in downtown Manhattan. The guard opens my door. I glance at Beatrice before stepping out.
"Hopefully you won't get intimidated on your first day."
She gives me a sideways look that almost — almost — makes me laugh.
I clear my throat and step out.
Mid-spring air, slightly warmer than it's been. I adjust my cufflinks moving through the VIP entrance, guards in black lowering their heads as I pass. The executive elevator opens directly onto the highest floor — where a handful of Arab executives quietly determine the direction of oil, gas, and crude usage across entire markets.
Power is a peculiar thing. It whispers through corridors, manufacturing an illusion of control for the many — while a small number of players at the top divide the real profits among themselves. And even they, more often than not, end up as instruments of families like mine. Families content to be mistaken for unremarkable French immigrants who simply got lucky.
The boardroom doors slide open. My loafers are silent against the marble.
Five executives from Al-Barak Oil Company. Double my age and combined experience. They stand when I enter.
One of them — familiar from a dozen galas — crosses the room with a wide smile and an extended hand. "Aurélien — you're finally here."
The CEO of Al-Barak. Thick accent, warm expression, and the instincts of a man who has spent decades making exploitation look like generosity. A few years back he engineered an artificial supply freeze under the cover of environmental concern, then sold at a twenty percent markup while markets panicked.
"Mr. Hamza." I shake his hand. Practiced smile, firm grip. "It's been a while."
His eyes move past me to Angel, then settle on Beatrice — who is taking in the room with the open, unguarded curiosity of someone discovering something genuinely interesting.
Why do I find that so disarming.
"I've met your assistant before — and who might this lovely woman be?"
My jaw tightens.
Beatrice waits for me to speak. I hold the moment one beat longer than necessary.
"My new advisor. Beatrice Kenz."
Hamza's gaze moves over her with an interest that has nothing to do with business. That is precisely why I told her the attire needed to change. She looks like someone who wandered in from the wrong floor — and men like Hamza treat anything that appears harmless as something to be consumed.
"Mr. Hamza." My voice drops a register. He stills immediately, smile faltering. I keep mine exactly in place. "Shall we begin?"
He nods quickly. "Yes — yes, of course. Please, sit."
Beatrice's brow creases slightly as she takes her seat. Angel exhales quietly beside her.
This feeling tightening in my chest right now — why does the idea of his eyes on her make me want to remove them entirely.
The meeting opens smoothly enough. Their side pushes. Angel takes notes and passes something in a low voice to Joseph, our lead negotiator, who frowns and begins calculating.
I haven't spoken yet. I rarely need to unless things deteriorate past a certain point.
"We cannot offer more than one-point-two billion for the refinery machinery and legal rights to establish Laurent Energy's plant on our soil." Sharp, firm — that's Bilal, not Hamza. Unlike the CEO, this one doesn't have air where his judgment should be.
Joseph opens his mouth. Beatrice cuts across him — gently, almost conversationally.
"Mr. Bilal." She leans forward slightly, voice unhurried and warm. "You're proposing one-point-two billion. In exchange for Laurent Energy's finest engineers, our most advanced machinery, full tax compliance, and the complete legal infrastructure to establish and operate the plant on your soil." A small pause. "You feel that's a justifiable figure?"
Joseph and Angel both look at her.
Hamza leans in, all warmth replaced by the focused attention of a man who does not play carelessly with numbers. "Are you suggesting it isn't?"
"Are you suggesting it is?"
Bilal stops mid-click on his laptop.
Beatrice glances down at her iPad with an expression of mild, innocent curiosity. "There's something interesting circulating lately — perhaps you've heard." She looks up. "Schweitzer Bank. The Swiss private institution. They've made a substantial investment into Arko Oil Corporation in Dubai." She glances across the table. "Joseph, what was the figure?"
Joseph adjusts his glasses. "Three billion dollars."
"Three billion." She nods slowly, as if hearing it for the first time herself. "Quite significant."
The shift in the room is immediate. Bilal leans toward the man beside him and murmurs something urgent. That man excuses himself and leaves quickly. Hamza's grip on his pen tightens visibly — Arko and Al-Barak have been rivals for decades, their silent war one of the worst-kept secrets in the industry.
"Of course," Beatrice continues pleasantly, "one imagines Arko will be reaching out to us soon — if they haven't already. Their representatives did make contact with our team. We declined, naturally, given the decade-long relationship between Laurent Energy and Al-Barak. But at three billion in backing..." She tilts her head. "The conversation does become more interesting."
Joseph picks up her thread without missing a beat — instinctively, almost reflexively. I press my tongue against my teeth to keep my expression neutral.
She walked in here this morning. She has been in this room for twenty minutes. And she has already made a man sprint out of a boardroom.
The man returns. Whatever he whispers to Bilal makes his jaw clench hard. Bilal murmurs to Hamza, whose face moves through several colors before settling into the controlled mask of someone recalibrating quickly.
Bilal smiles. "As Ms. Kenz correctly noted — one-point-two billion would never reflect the true value of Laurent Energy's infrastructure."
Beatrice nods graciously, then glances at me and slides her phone across the table. I look down.
Settle at one billion eight hundred fifty million. Demand ten percent of quarterly profit for the duration of machinery usage. Minimum ninety million per quarter. Long-term yield significantly exceeds a flat two-billion transfer.
I look at her.
She holds my gaze, calm and waiting.
I return my attention to the table. "Given our longstanding partnership, I'm prepared to make certain accommodations."
Within the hour, both parties have signed the preliminary drafts — a deal structured to yield more over three years than any flat transfer would have delivered.
Back in the car, afternoon light cutting sideways through the windows, I look at her.
"You're good."
She tilts her head. Those bright, impossible eyes catch the light with something mischievous in them. "Just good?"
A slow laugh leaves my throat before I can stop it. "No. Amazing."
She beams — actually beams — and wiggles her shoulders with the particular self-satisfaction of someone who has absolutely earned the right to be smug about it. "I'm just doing my job."
Just doing your job.
And somehow, in the space of a single morning, you've managed to completely occupy my attention.