ADRIEN'S POV
Rain turns the road ahead into a blur. New York doesn't look the same during storms — something about the way the glass and steel towers disappear into sheets of water makes them seem less permanent. Like something is lurking behind the giants, waiting for them to fall.
I hit the brakes in front of the fifty-four-story building that overlooks the skyline with the particular arrogance of someone who paid too much for the view. My eyes are cold as I grab the umbrella and step out. Water ripples around my shoes. Wind cuts across my face like a warning I'm choosing to ignore.
The guard recognizes me and switches off the CCTV instantly. Nobody gets to see my face outside this building unless I allow it. It's been a long time since I've felt this kind of stillness — the kind that hides something far more dangerous than any person in that penthouse can handle.
The elevator hums softly. Water drips from my closed umbrella.
Drip.
Drip.
Drip.
In silence, even that small sound carries weight.
The doors open at the forty-third floor. The massive wooden door ahead says more about its owner than any announcement ever could. I ring the bell. The maid opens the door, bows her head, and steps aside.
I walk in.
Floor-to-ceiling windows frame the Manhattan skyline through sheets of heavy rain, the city's lights bleeding into streaks of gold and white against the dark glass. The living room sits in warm half-darkness — Persian rugs underfoot, deep couches scattered with pillows, plants casting soft shadows from the faint glow of a single lamp. It feels like a hideout suspended above a drowning city, quiet enough to hear the rain hammer against every window.
Olivia sits on one of the couches in a red silk robe, blonde hair falling past her waist. Those amber eyes — golden when the light catches them — find me with a knowing glint of obsession that I've come to detest over the years.
"It took me twelve years to make you come to me." She sips her wine slowly, sizing me up. "Yet one hit on that little advisor of yours and here you are, standing in my living room."
A small laugh leaves my mouth. My hands itch. But I can't cause havoc between the Laurent and Ashcombe families. The election is three months away. Both our families are backing the same Republican candidate.
And that's exactly where Olivia miscalculated.
"Nice penthouse." I look around, hands tucked in my pockets. She frowns slightly but masks it. "I've invited you dozens of times before."
"You have." I nod, walking behind the couch. Olivia's finger traces the rim of her glass. I can feel the heat radiating off her in anticipation.
I stop behind her. The delicate line of her neck is visible above the robe. I could end this conversation in a very different way than she's imagining. But the thought that follows isn't about consequences or family alliances — it's about Beatrice. And how she'd look at me if she ever saw the thing that lives under this mask.
I rest my hand on Olivia's shoulder. "You want me that much. I didn't realize."
She sets down her wine glass and tilts her head up, those amber eyes darkening. "Aurélien, I've always adored you. And I think you know it. Nobody could love you more than I do."
Love.
I nearly scoff out loud. She doesn't want me — she wants the Laurent name to overtake Olivier in the succession race. I might have offered support if she'd come to me cleanly, as a strategist, instead of trying to turn me into something she could possess.
"Olivia." I look her dead in the eyes. Smile. Cold and precise.
Her face goes pale.
I tighten my grip on her shoulder — firm enough that one deliberate movement would dislocate the joint. She inhales sharply, refusing to show pain.
"You shouldn't have touched her."
Her jaw tightens. "Aurélien — you can't threaten me over a mere advisor—"
I press harder. A whimper escapes before she can stop it.
"What makes you think I won't?" I lean down, voice barely above a whisper. "I could snap your neck right here and call it an accident. You know that."
Her body goes rigid. Then something shifts in her expression — the fear hardens into defiance. "You would have done it long ago if killing me were that simple."
"You overestimate your value."
"You underestimate my calculation."
I don't. That's the problem. Olivia Ashcombe is reckless and obsessive and willing to go to any length to become the head of her family. I learned the cost of underestimating that kind of person once — with Theodore Schweitzer. I won't make the same mistake twice.
A deep chuckle rumbles through my chest as I release her shoulder. "I've never underestimated you, Olivia. I'm not your father."
"Aurélien!" She snaps, triggered exactly the way I intended.
"Speaking of your father — I heard something interesting." I straighten, adjusting my cuff. Casual. Unhurried. "Chairman Ashcombe has been positioning Olivier for the Asian market expansion."
Olivia's eyes widen. She's on her feet instantly, trembling with rage. "What did you say?"
I tilt my head, expression innocent. "Olivier is likely to become regional CEO of Ash Tech in Asia. That would make him my functional equivalent — the unofficial successor. Much like I am the official one for my father."
She grabs her wine glass and hurls it at me. I sidestep it easily. The crystal shatters against the wall behind me.
"Careful. It would be a disaster if something happened to this face."
She's breathing hard. Shoulders heaving. Rage and betrayal written across every feature. Of course she didn't know about moves being made on the top floor of Ash Tech — the floor where one of my people works. Someone who can shift the entire succession with a single report, on my command.
Olivia and Olivier. Two siblings. Rivals. Blood-hungry for each other's position. Same parents, yet the favoritism is so obvious it's practically hereditary.
Not every family raises their children the way mine did. Seven kids, not as competitors but as each other's strongest allies. My parents got that right, at least.
"I will destroy you if you're lying." She points at me, finger shaking.
I smile. "Can you afford to make me your enemy?"
She freezes mid-threat. Realization settles across her face like cold water.
I walk past her. Take my umbrella from the maid. Pause at the door.
"One more thing." I glance back. "Don't go near my little terrorist again."
Olivia clenches her fists. Bites her lip hard enough to draw blood. "What will you do if I don't listen?"
She's poking a sleeping lion without understanding what happens when it wakes.
I turn my head slightly. The air between us drops several degrees.
"You won't like what follows. Focus on your succession, Olivia. Who knows how much longer you'll last in this race."
I step out. Behind me, she screams — glass breaking, furniture scraping across the floor. I don't look back.
I rarely get my hands dirty the way my father does. He doesn't think twice before eliminating a threat to my mother or any of his children. For me, things have always been chess. Place the right piece in the right position. Sit back. Watch.
I get back in the car.
The passenger seat is empty. Beatrice sat there yesterday. The absence of her is louder than it should be.
A small sigh leaves my throat as I turn the wheel and drive — almost instinctively — toward her apartment building. It's on the opposite side of the city from mine. I have no reason to be going there.
Rain pours harder. Streets empty at 11 PM. My grip on the wheel tightens as I think about the CCTV footage from earlier — Sarah's guard holding Beatrice, forcing her to her knees.
The fury that moved through me watching that footage was unlike anything I've experienced. Raw. Unprocessed. If Lucian hadn't stepped in at that moment, I don't know what I would have done. Maybe nothing that could be undone.
I stop beneath her apartment building. Sixth floor. Living room light still on.
I look down at my hands on the wheel. Breathe. Step out.
I don't bother with the umbrella. Let the rain take what it wants.
Why is my heart beating this fast?
I'm standing in front of her door. I can knock. I can see her. But what do I say? Why am I here?
The hallway is modest and warm — a strange contrast to the cold soaking through my shirt. Water drips from my hair onto the floor.
I press my lips tight. Inhale. Ring the bell.
My throat is dry. Pulse hammering.
By the third ring, the door opens.
And my stomach flips.
Beatrice stands in front of me with her hair thrown up in a messy bun and yellow turmeric paste smeared across her entire face, making her dark brown eyes look even deeper by contrast. No heels. No jewelry. No makeup. Just Beatrice in a pastel nightgown, squinting at me like I'm a hallucination she didn't order.
"What are you doing here?" She blinks rapidly.
My eyes soften. A small smile pulls at my lips before I can stop it.
Ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous how much of me has no idea why I'm here.
"I got lost and found my way here."
"Huh?" She frowns.
"It's raining outside." I correct course immediately. "My car broke down—"
"Then get a cab."
I exhale in disbelief. "What an odd way to greet someone."
"And how rude of you to show up at a single woman's door at 11 PM." She fires back without missing a beat. It shouldn't make me feel anything close to pleased, but I think I've officially lost my mind.
"Yeah. I apologize." I nod.
She narrows her eyes. Suspicious. Unmoved.
"At least offer me some water."
"No."
"I'm drenched."
She shakes her head. "After office hours, I don't know you, Vice Chairman."
Warmth spreads through my chest — irrational, uninvited, and entirely welcome. I nod slowly.
"But you could know Adrien after office hours."
She raises her palm toward me. Shakes her head. "Not interested."
I exhale through my mouth. A laugh escapes before I can catch it — quiet, genuine, pulled from somewhere I didn't know still existed.
She freezes slightly. "Why are you laughing?"
My eyes crinkle at the corners. "Nothing. Then I'll leave for tonight."
"What do you mean 'for tonight'?" Her frown deepens. Even that yellow paste can't hide the suspicion written across her face.
I lean down slightly. She steps back instinctively, blinking.
"It means I'll be coming back to annoy you, little terrorist."