BEATRICE'S POV
"Your plan today was bold."
I stop mid-scoop of chocolate ice cream, taco in one hand, mind split between praising whoever made these and mentally listing everything I need to do after work. Angel's voice slices through both thoughts like she's been sharpening it all day.
Her eyes are zeroed in on me. Scrutiny written all over that perfect, terrifying face.
"Well, it worked." I wipe sauce off my chin.
Angel lets out a breath of disbelief—the kind that sounds like she wants to kick me off this floor just for existing.
Whatever. The tacos deserve my attention more.
"Ms. Kenz, you need to understand—you are now one of the closest people working for the Vice Chairman. Your attitude reflects his credibility. This isn't how things work here."
Irritation curls at the pit of my stomach. I really, genuinely hate being lectured. Especially when I'm eating the best taco downtown Manhattan has ever produced.
I smile anyway. "I'll keep that in mind."
"Your expression says otherwise." Cold. Precise.
Damn this woman—she's good.
I focus back on my taco. Some things smell worse the more attention you give them. Angel's jaw clenches at my dismissal, tight enough that I can practically hear her teeth grinding.
Then—another set of footsteps. Familiar ones.
I press my lips tight. Just let me eat in peace.
"Oh... is this Angel Blake?"
Sophia's clipped, mocking voice fills the garden like she owns the air in it. Angel turns her head. The smile that forms on her lips makes her look like something pulled straight out of a dark fantasy novel—slender figure, sharp grey eyes, and a suit tailored so precisely it could cut you.
"You're coming to work, Ms. Jonathan? I thought you were traumatised from yesterday."
Sophia smiles gracefully. Every inch the socialite, even on a random Tuesday afternoon.
Tacos and drama... honestly, not a bad combination.
I take a slow bite, watching the standoff between the Vice Chairman's assistant and the board director's daughter. Classic corporate theatre. Free admission.
"I'm touched by your concern, but as you can see—I'm perfectly fine." Sophia crosses her arms, arrogance firmly in place.
Angel doesn't yield. Not even slightly.
"Indeed. But I've heard you heavily disappointed Mr. Jonathan with your Q3 performance." A pause. Then, with surgical precision: "You know, you can always ask me for help if you're struggling."
My eyebrow lifts.
Whatever she just hit—it landed. Sophia's fist clenches at her side, knuckles turning white, lips pressed together hard enough to tremble. Angel says nothing more. She gives me a final measured look.
"See you around, Ms. Kenz."
And walks away.
Sophia's cheeks turn crimson the second the door closes. She turns to me, trying to recover. Failing.
"Are you two close already?"
I shake my head. "She was threatening me five minutes ago."
"Why?"
"Apparently my first assignment under the Vice Chairman was a bit... unconventional."
Sophia chuckles—low, genuine—earlier embarrassment dissolving at the image of someone else catching heat. "I told you. Not everyone is as doting as my father. Your way of doing things won't always earn you bonuses."
I narrow my eyes. "What are you doing up here, though? Missed me that much?"
Sophia freezes like a rabbit caught mid-crime. Eyes flutter, darting everywhere except at me.
"As if. I'm just surprised a nobody like you got Aurélien's attention and ended up under his direct supervision."
"Jealous?"
"In your dreams." She snaps.
Then she pauses. The arrogance drops. Not completely—Sophia would die before she let that happen—but enough.
"I came to warn you. Stop poking at the Schweitzers. Even if you're working for Aurélien."
I sit up straighter.
Sophia adjusts her sleeves with practised dismissiveness, but beneath the performance, I see it—her face is serious. Actually, genuinely serious.
"I heard from Dad that you used Schweitzer's investment in Al-Barak's rival to leverage the deal. But you have no idea how dangerous—" She stops herself. Shakes her head slowly. "How twisted the relationship between the Laurents and Schweitzers actually is. It goes far beyond corporate rivalry."
Something tightens inside me.
She's right. I know fragments—that Adrien and Theodore were once close, that something shattered between them badly enough to turn allies into enemies—but fragments aren't enough when you're standing in the wreckage.
The rest of the day passes in paperwork and settling into my new office overlooking the Manhattan skyline. Spreadsheets, filings, the steady rhythm of numbers that I've always found more comforting than people.
Yet by nine at night, standing at the bus stop with the city buzzing around me, I can't shake Sophia's expression.
For her—of all people—to seek me out and warn me...
I inhale deeply. Feel the strain settle across my shoulders like something heavy I didn't pick up voluntarily.
A car pulls up before I hear it.
Low. Black. The kind of thing that swallows light the way expensive things do. No badge visible from where I stand, but I've seen this machine enough times in the company's underground garage.
I know exactly who that Ferrari belongs to.
The glass rolls down. Adrien looks at me.
"Waiting for someone, Beatrice?"
Night throws shadows across his face, but the intensity of his gaze—those mismatched eyes, blue and green catching the streetlight—makes me stand straighter without meaning to.
"No, Vice Chairman. Waiting for my bus."
His eyebrow twitches. Behind me, someone mutters about the car looking like it belongs to someone running illegal operations.
How wrong they are. And how right.
"Get in. I'll drive you home."
My fingers curl tighter around my bag strap. "Thank you, but the bus is fine."
A vein shifts along his jaw. The air around him changes—something darker threading through the silence between us.
I've worked around men like Adrien Aurélien Laurent long enough to recognise the pattern. Women like me are their favourite distraction when the world bores them. Innocent-looking, educated, middle class, hard-working—the kind who'll bend themselves into new shapes just to be noticed by the right people.
I was heading down that road once. Then I watched too many sharp, capable women turn into entertainment for bored heirs. And I learned exactly where my boundaries are.
Adrien's gaze doesn't waver.
"Call me if you have any problem."
His voice drops. Low and heavy enough to settle somewhere in my chest.
I don't lower my eyes. "Yes. Vice Chairman."
The window rolls up. The Ferrari pulls away—silent and dark, dissolving into the Manhattan traffic like it was never there.
I exhale, its indeed a long day.
I board the bus thinking about warm dinner, a quiet apartment, maybe something mindless on television. Simple things. Normal things.
Two stops pass.
A man sits down next to me.
I don't look up. Don't need to. People sit next to strangers on buses every day.
Until an unfamiliar scent reaches me.
Pleasant. Masculine. Rich in a way that makes my lungs slow down. Agarwood and leather, something close to musk but cooler—quieter. My eyes close for a half-second before I catch myself.
This nose of mine, which rejects ninety-nine percent of everything the world puts in the air, has now approved exactly two colognes in recent memory.
Adrien's.
And this stranger's.
I turn my head. Just slightly—a casual glance. Maybe he's cute. Maybe I'll start a conversation. Maybe—
Theodore Schweitzer is sitting right next to me.
Grey hoodie. Sweatpants. Hair slightly dishevelled. He looks nothing like the man from last night's ballroom—and somehow that makes him worse. More human. Closer. Like something dangerous that took off its armour just to prove it doesn't need it.
He looks at me.
Cold. Detached. Patient.
The back of my neck breaks into sweat.
I should have gotten in the Ferrari.
I am never refusing a free ride again. Ever. For the rest of my life.
Adrien told me to call if I had a problem. Did he know? Did he somehow—my throat tightens. I hold Theodore's gaze because looking away first feels like losing something I can't afford to lose.
"Beatrice Kenz." His voice is low-pitched and unhurried—the kind of voice that doesn't need volume to fill a room. Or a bus. "You know who I am."
Not a question.
I keep my tone level, keep my breathing steady, keep every instinct screaming inside me locked behind a calm face.
"Yes. Theodore Schweitzer."
"And yet you stood in my way."
"That was my job."
His gaze drags over me—not with interest, not with attraction. With assessment. The way someone examines a tool to determine whether it's worth acquiring.
"You don't carry yourself like someone who belongs at his side."
My jaw tightens. That's the second man today who's looked at me and decided I don't match the frame they'd prefer.
"Yesterday you saved a room full of people from burning to death." He says it the way someone might comment on the time. Flat. Factual.
I lean back against the seat. "I did."
He studies my face for a long moment. Nods once.
"You should have been born into one of the five families."
I frown.
"I've had the best minds money can buy surrounding me for fifteen years." His violet eyes don't blink. "Yet not a single woman has managed to intrigue me the way you did in one evening."
My pulse climbs. Not in anticipation. Not in flattery. Something deeper—a sixth sense I've spent years sharpening, reading rooms and reading people—screams at me from somewhere behind my ribs.
This isn't admiration. This is acquisition.
I have caught the attention of the wrong man.
Theodore's violet eyes hold mine. Still. Unblinking.
"Be mine."