BEATRICE'S POV
I was livid at Adrien. The entire drive home was a silent war — his jaw set, my arms crossed, neither of us willing to break first. And then whatever happened in front of my apartment building made it worse. His hand on my wrist. His voice saying he wasn't done with me. The way he looked at me like my anger was something he wanted to keep.
Nobody has ever gotten under my skin the way Adrien Aurélien Laurent did today.
I take a long shower. Too tired to cook. Too hungry to sleep on an empty stomach. Jasmine and coconut linger on my skin as I change into soft cotton. My studio apartment is dimly lit — one bedroom with the softest mattress I could find in New York, a small study desk by the window, a living room I decorated piece by piece with an IKEA plush couch, a bookshelf carrying more than fifty novels, a small balcony off to the side, and a kitchen on the other end.
Warm. Cozy. Neat. Clean. My sanctuary from the world. A space I built with my own hands and my own money.
I'm reaching for my phone to order dinner when the doorbell rings.
Who shows up at 8 PM? If it's Lia, I won't be surprised — she crashes here more often than any reasonable friend should. I walk over, half ready to rant about my day and half deciding between Thai and Mexican.
Then I open the door.
And everything stops.
Theodore Schweitzer is standing in my hallway. Leather jacket, dark pants, boots. Hair slightly tousled — from wind or intention, either way it makes him look younger than thirty-two. In his hands: a bouquet of white roses and pink peonies. And he's looking at me the way a boy looks at the girl he's been building courage to approach all day.
My eyes widen. "Theodore."
His violet eyes soften at the corners. "Hey." His voice comes out quiet. Tender, almost. "I came to ask you out for dinner."
My breath hitches.
Ask me out for dinner. I blink rapidly, searching his face for cracks — anything that would reveal the real intention behind this man showing up at my door with my favorite flowers.
I lean forward slightly, like proximity might change what he just said. "You what?"
"I'm asking you out on a date." A small smile settles on those sharp features. "Hoping you won't be cruel enough to reject me."
This is ridiculous.
I know I shouldn't be feeling this way. But how exactly am I supposed to act normal when a six-foot-five man with a dangerously handsome face, violet eyes, and a jawline that could cut marble is smiling at me like he isn't rumored to have killed his own family? And carrying my favorite flowers on top of it?
I clench my fists and cross my arms over my chest. "I don't think I ever agreed to date you."
He nods. No protest. "Right. But I said I'd be pursuing you for six months."
Something unsettles inside me. He meant it. I thought he was joking. My shoulders drop. I rub my temple. "I'm too tired for a dinner date."
"I can order it here."
I narrow my eyes. He gives me the most innocent expression — wide-eyed, earnest, like a kid asking for one more ride at the amusement park. I swear I have a weakness for cute things. And "cute" and "Theodore Schweitzer" shouldn't exist in the same sentence.
"You want to eat with me that badly?"
"Yes."
Shameless. Completely, unapologetically shameless.
And it almost makes me smile. I press my lips tight, fighting the exhaustion and the absurdity and whatever his gentle expression is doing to my defenses.
"What food?" I ask, narrowing my eyes. Men like Theodore who sit at the top of their world never face rejection. So if I stop resisting — if I act agreeable, easy, accommodating — he'll lose interest. That's the play. Just be boring.
"Your choice."
"I like Mexican food."
His lips tug into a quiet smile. He takes out his phone and hands it to me. I freeze, staring at his phone, then back at him.
"Order whatever you want."
I blink at the device like it's radioactive. This man is the uncrowned most powerful man in Europe. Head of the Schweitzer dynasty. And he's handing me his unlocked phone.
"You have zero survival instincts," I mumble, swiping it open.
His wallpaper is a black window with moonlight reflecting through it. I glance at him — still standing there with flowers and chocolates like an obedient teenager waiting for permission to exist.
I sigh internally, place the order, and hand it back.
"These are for you." He extends the bouquet and the chocolates. I take them reluctantly.
I don't hate how good these flowers smell.
"You're really trying to impress me." I look up at him. Theodore blinks like a cat caught mid-mischief. Then nods. "I am. You said you don't know me well enough to accept me."
I nod. "Yeah. And you aren't exactly what I pictured when I think about a husband."
His expression turns thoughtful. Genuinely curious. "Then what kind of man do you picture?"
I shift my weight to one leg. He's actually asking. Fine. Men run when women set their standards impossibly high. That's the escape route.
"I want my man to be rich. Handsome. Tall. Smells good. Loyal."
He answers like he's confirming items on a checklist. "I'm all of those."
My fingers tighten around the chocolate bag. "And a man who worships the ground I walk on." I step closer, not breaking eye contact, not faltering. "A man who can't breathe at the thought of me with someone else. For whom my tears are more painful than being stabbed. That's the kind of obsession and madness I want from my husband. Obsessive. Possessive. A stalking predator who would rather destroy himself than let me go."
I know I've just described every dark romance male lead in existence. But he doesn't know that. Nor should he.
Theodore stays silent.
Staring at me with that dangerous calm I noticed on the bus. He blinks slowly. Then his hand reaches out — and wraps gently around the side of my neck.
My pulse kicks up. Eyes widen.
"You want a man who's pathetically obsessed with you?" His voice drops low, the earlier softness replaced with something dark. Those violet eyes spark with an unsaid warning. His hand against my throat is warm and steady — not squeezing, just... holding. Like a man resting his palm on something he's already decided belongs to him.
"Yes."
He lowers his head until his forehead rests against mine. I feel blood rushing hot through my veins, warning me against whatever storm this man will bring into my life.
"You know it's not fun to have an obsessive stalker after you."
I keep my eyes steady despite the strange heat building in my chest. "Well, I want it."
I can smell him closer than I've smelled any man. Same agarwood and leather. Something uniquely him underneath — fresh, masculine, like cold air over warm skin. My eyelashes flutter when his forehead presses against mine. His jaw is clenched tight, veins visible at his temple, and I can see the way he's holding himself back from something.
"You're a walking disaster, Sonnenschein."
I frown. "What does that mean?"
He says nothing.
Adrien calls me little terrorist. Theodore calls me Sonnenschein. Whatever is wrong with these two men is making my life unnecessarily complicated.
He pulls away slightly. Our noses brush. His thumb traces a slow line over my pulse point. "Your heart is beating fast," he murmurs.
"You look like you want to strangle me," I fire back.
His lips twitch. "Didn't you say you wanted an obsessive stalker?"
My eyes widen. "I never said a bastard."
"But that's what that is."
"Excuse me — you're judging my preference in men?"
"Your preference in men is worthy of judgment."
I elbow his ribs. He releases my neck. "Too weak," he murmurs.
I'm about to say more when the food arrives. The same man from yesterday appears with two bags from my favorite Mexican restaurant. I glare at Theodore, who takes the bags from him without breaking stride.
He holds them out to me. "I know you won't want me inside."
"Very smart of you," I mock. But he just gives me a soft look and nods as I take the bags.
"Then... see you tomorrow."
My eyes widen. "Wait. You're coming again?"
He nods. "Yeah. I told you — I'll keep pursuing you until you get tired of saying no and say yes instead."
This man is playing the longest game I've ever seen.
"I won't sell information about the Laurents to you." I warn him flatly.
He blinks — slowly, reverently, almost annoyingly soft. "I don't need you to sell me anything. Just let me keep showing up."
And with that, he turns and walks away. Hands in his pockets. Disappearing down the hallway like a man who just delivered his heart to a doorstep and expects nothing in return.
I stand there. Stunned. Holding flowers, chocolates, and my favorite food.
My chest tightens.
This isn't what I was looking for. Not in this lifetime. Not in any.
Morning comes too fast.
I wake before my alarm and go for a run. New York doesn't sleep — even 7 AM in Central Park feels like midday. My chest burns, my head pounds, and somehow the breathlessness helps shake loose some of the thoughts that kept me up last night.
I shower. Eat breakfast while scrolling unread emails. Pray for a normal day.
Heaven laughs.
Because the moment I step into my office, I am greeted by an unexpected, unwanted, and entirely unwelcome guest sitting in my chair.
"Oh. You must be the new advisor Aurélien has gotten himself."
Sweet voice dripping with something corrosive. Golden blonde hair catching the morning light through my window. A rosy perfume fills my office — too strong, too deliberate, and it makes my shoulders stiffen with discomfort.
"And for what reason is Ms. Sarah Ashcombe in my office?"
She smiles — the kind of smile that looks warm from a distance and venomous up close. Sarah Ashcombe. Cousin to Olivia and Olivier, and from what I've heard in passing, the one the Ashcombe family sends when they want to make a point without getting their hands dirty.
She stands, heels clicking against my floor. Before I can process the movement, someone seizes my arm from behind and wrenches it backward, forcing me to my knees. Pain shoots up my spine. A strangled sound escapes my throat.
A tall, short-haired woman in a black suit stands behind me, gripping my arm at an angle that makes my shoulder scream. She looks down at me like I'm an insect she's considering stepping on.
"A nobody like you doesn't deserve to stand at Madam's eye level."
I feel my blood boiling. The pain is sharp and immediate but the rage underneath it is sharper.
Sarah settles onto my couch, crossing her legs with practiced elegance. "My guard Kate is a bit sensitive when it comes to me. You understand."
The grip on my arm tightens when I try to move. My jaw clenches against the pain.
Sarah leans forward and lifts my chin with one finger, studying my face the way someone examines merchandise. "Hmm. Kate — do you think she has the look? The kind certain collectors pay attention to?"
Kate's voice is flat behind me. "There are plenty who'd enjoy taming a wild one, Madam."
My stomach turns cold. My jaw tightens harder.
"What exactly do you think you're doing?" I growl.
Something flickers in Sarah's pale blue eyes — irritation at being spoken to by someone on their knees. "You're talking back?"
I scoff despite the pain radiating through my shoulder. "I'm doing you a favor. This entire room has CCTV connected directly to the security system under the Vice Chairman's office."
Sarah chuckles — cold, dismissive. "You think his security would move against an Ashcombe? Silly girl."
And then someone kicks the door open.
Sarah and Kate both freeze. I turn my head toward the sound.
"There, there — who do we have here?"
An unfamiliar voice. Male. Cheerful in a way that doesn't match the violence in the room. My brow creases as I take in the figure leaning against my broken doorframe.
Lucian Rothenburg. Messy blonde hair. Three buttons undone. Lazy stance that radiates the kind of danger most people mistake for carelessness. Behind him, three guards from Laurent's security team stand in formation.
Sarah rises, trembling with fury. "Lucian Rothenburg!"
He waves casually. "Hello there, rotten egg."
Kate moves toward him. Lucian glances at the guards and tilts his chin. They step forward and pull Kate away from me with practiced efficiency. Sarah watches, nostrils flaring.
"What are you doing here?"
Lucian strolls into my office like he owns it — like he owns every room he enters — and looks down at me with amused curiosity. He extends his hand.
"Trying to earn some points with Aurélien. You must not have heard, rotten egg — he fired ten board members over this little advisor of his."
I take his hand and try to stand, but my shoulder screams and my knees buckle. A pained sound escapes me before I can swallow it. Lucian catches my arm — steady, firm, not letting me fall. His gaze is far too sharp and curious for a man whose reputation is built on being the biggest playboy in high society.
Sarah goes still. "What?"
Lucian looks at her with something that isn't playful anymore. "I think you understand what it means to lay hands on someone Aurélien considers his."
I open my mouth to correct him — I am not Adrien's anything, I am his advisor — but Sarah speaks first, her voice cracking with disbelief.
"No. There's no way a mere advisor is someone he'd—"
"Sarah." Lucian's voice drops. One word. No surname. No title. Just her name, spoken with a quiet authority that sends a chill down my spine and straightens my posture involuntarily.
The playboy mask is gone. What's underneath is something that explains how an illegitimate son survives inside a dynasty built on legitimacy.
Sarah's face drains of color. She glares at me — sharp, personal, a look that promises this isn't over — and storms out of the room, Kate following a step behind.
The silence that follows is thick.
Lucian exhales, turning back to me with the casual warmth restored like a switch being flipped. "Did she break anything?"
"I wouldn't be surprised if she did," I mutter, rotating my shoulder carefully.
"Neither would I." He guides me toward the couch. "Sarah Ashcombe is a nasty piece of work — but she's also just the errand girl. If she's here, it means the real Ashcombes are paying attention to you."
I frown. "Why would the Ashcombes care about me?"
Lucian settles into the armchair across from me, one ankle resting on his knee, lazy grin returning. "Because you sit in a chair on the thirty-second floor of Laurent Corporation." He tilts his head. "That makes you interesting. And in our world, interesting people either become very powerful or very dead."
I let out a hollow laugh and sink into the cushion.
My life is an absolute circus.
And the show, apparently, is just getting started.