ADRIEN'S POV
Killian sets a warm croissant and a mug of black coffee on my desk. I blink, pulled out of wherever my head has been for the last hour. "When did you come in?"
He studies my face. "Just now. Angel said you've been off since morning. Haven't eaten."
I part my lips to say something precise and dismissive — my default, my armor — but my head is heavier than it's been in years. And only one image keeps surfacing behind my eyes.
Beatrice standing in the rain. Hair soaked. Tears indistinguishable from water. Looking up at me through the glass like I was the reason the sky split open.
I told her she was just an employee. When those words left my mouth, I felt physically sick.
I drag my fingers through my hair and loosen my tie. Killian frowns. "Adrien. What's wrong?"
"Stress." The lie comes out smooth. Because what am I supposed to say — that I'm like this because of my advisor? That her anger makes me feel alive and her tears make me feel like the worst man who ever drew breath?
I take a bite of the croissant. Warm. Buttery. Exactly how I like it. Today it tastes like nothing.
My phone buzzes. Security check-in notification.
My hand pauses mid-bite.
She's here.
A faint knock on the door tightens something behind my ribs.
"Come in."
Beatrice steps through. Pastel suit. Hair in a sleek bun. Makeup done just enough to accentuate what doesn't need accentuating. She looks composed. Professional. Untouched by yesterday.
Our eyes meet.
And those gorgeous brown eyes — the ones that usually spark when they look at me, whether in anger or curiosity or defiance — are flat. Distant. Like she's looking at a piece of furniture.
It shouldn't hurt. It does.
Killian waves. "Hello there, Ms. Advisor."
Beatrice turns to him. And smiles. Warm, genuine, easy — the kind of smile I have never once received from her.
"Good to see you, Killian."
First-name basis. When did that happen?
Killian, being the effortless charmer he is, launches into a conversation about her negotiation skills, something about how she deserves the title "Strategist" and how the Al-Barak deal was a masterclass. She doesn't shut him down. Doesn't look at him like his presence is an inconvenience.
She giggles softly at something he says.
I click my tongue. "Killian."
He freezes mid-sentence. Reads the room in half a second. Lets out a nervous laugh, standing. "Right — seems like duty calls. Life as CEO of a weapons manufacturing company, you know. Always on alert."
Beatrice smiles at him again.
"See you for golf this weekend, bro." Killian winks at me on his way out. The door closes with a soft thud.
Her smile vanishes the instant she looks at me.
"You seem close to a lot of people." My voice comes out lower than I intend.
She stiffens. Her throat shifts slightly, but she meets my eyes without flinching. "So?"
So.
I stand, leaving the half-eaten croissant on the desk. Sunlight filters through the floor-to-ceiling windows behind me, catching the edge of her cheekbone in warm gold.
There's no trace of the girl crying in the rain yesterday. No trace of the girl who walked into my life days ago and somehow rearranged every priority I've held for thirty-four years.
I move around the desk. Stop directly in front of her.
Beatrice looks away. I can see the tension climbing her neck.
"The people you associate with reflect on me. It is my business."
Her eyes darken. She steps back — not in retreat, in defiance. "Well, pardon me, Vice Chairman. I thought as an employee, I only need to concern myself with professional matters. Not my personal life."
The bitterness in her voice carries the exact shape of what I said to her yesterday. She's throwing my own words back at me, and every one of them lands.
I pinch the bridge of my nose. Look at her. Something in my chest gives way.
"Are you angry with me?"
Her eyes widen — caught off guard. She shifts on her heels, looks away. "Why would I be angry with you?"
"I hurt you yesterday."
The words come out quieter than anything I've said in this office. Guilt presses against the inside of my skull — the irrational, unbearable urge to fall on my knees and apologize until she stops looking at me like I'm a stranger.
She looks at me. Eyes sparking with something cautious. Expectant.
I clench my fists at my sides.
"I'm sorry. For yesterday." A pause. The next words cost me more than any deal I've ever closed. "And for the boardroom."
Three words I've never given to anyone standing beneath me in any hierarchy. Maybe never at all.
Beatrice's shoulders release the fight she'd prepared for. The tension leaves her face slowly — like a warm breeze catching a bare tree and coaxing something new to grow.
She looks away. Lips pressing together in the faintest pout. "I'll consider it."
The corner of my mouth tugs upward. "Consider what?"
"You were being mean."
The smallness in her voice. This woman — this impossible mix of fire and audacity and sharp-edged brilliance — has a side that looks like a startled rabbit pretending it isn't scared. And it takes everything in me not to close the distance between us.
I step closer. My hand moves before my brain approves — reaching for the rebellious strand of hair that's fallen across her eye, tucking it gently behind her ear.
Her warm skin brushes against my fingertip. Beatrice freezes. Her breath catches.
She looks at me.
The air in my office charges with everything neither of us has said. I lower my head slightly.
"Yes. I was," I murmur. Admitting it softly. My own voice sounds foreign in my ears — too honest, too exposed.
Beatrice blinks rapidly. Her throat works. I haven't moved my finger from behind her ear. I know I should. But standing this close to her, with her breath warm against my chin and her eyelashes casting shadows on her cheeks, I feel like a schoolboy who's forgotten every lesson he ever learned.
My throat dries. My fingertip traces the curve of her ear without conscious thought. My heart beats so hard against my ribs that the room feels too quiet around it.
A soft knock. The door opens.
Both of us flinch. I step back instantly, turning away from her.
My breath comes out ragged. My heart is hammering so loud I'm certain Angel can hear it from the doorway.
Beatrice touches her neck, fingers pressing against her own pulse.
"Did I interrupt something?" Angel's eyes move between us with surgical precision.
I loosen my tie further. "No. I was discussing something with her." I glance at Beatrice, and what comes out of my mouth next is something I've never called anyone before. "Right, little terrorist?"
The nickname. In front of Angel. Spoken with a warmth I didn't authorize.
Beatrice's cheeks flush crimson. My stomach does something it has no business doing. She nods. "Yes."
Angel doesn't push. But she's filed it. I can tell.
Everything returns to professional. But I can still feel the ghost of her skin against my finger.
"Beatrice, I need you to review the file on Mr. Kwan. You're close with Mr. Jonathan — he'll value your assessment."
I hand her the black folder. Our fingers brush.
Electricity. Direct. Immediate. Travelling through every nerve in my hand and settling somewhere I refuse to acknowledge.
Her finger twitches against mine. She nods. "I'll follow up with Mr. Jonathan."
Angel watches us. My fingers linger over Beatrice's a beat longer than necessary before I pull away.
"I trust you."
I mean it. Trust has always come easily when it comes to her.
The heaviness in my head lifts when those familiar sparks return to her eyes. She leaves. The door closes.
Angel looks at me. Only someone who has worked under me since childhood could give me the look she's giving me now.
I ignore it. Whatever she's about to say will be too logical, too rational, and I'm in the mood for neither.
"Aurélien." Her voice is calm. Precise. "You are the eldest son of the Laurent family."
My body stiffens.
"You remember what happened the last time an outsider became involved with one of the heirs of the five families."
The warmth from moments ago drains out of me like water from a cracked glass.
I know exactly who she's talking about.
Theodore's father. A Schweitzer patriarch who fell for an opera singer. Married her despite already being married to Theodore's mother. Had the first wife killed. Then was killed — along with his second wife and five children — by a teenage Theodore consumed with greed and vengeance.
That's the story the world tells. I once knew a different version. I chose not to believe it.
I look at Angel. Cold. "Angel. Who are you?"
She stiffens. Lowers her head. "I crossed my limit, Boss."
Yes. She has.
But she's ruined the warmth that was still spreading through my chest. And the worst part is — she's not wrong.
Every time an outsider enters this world, it ends in blood.
My phone buzzes.
I look at the screen. My expression changes. Angel's phone buzzes a second later. She reads it. For a rare, fleeting moment, her composure falters.
"The security team has identified the individual behind the anniversary attack, Boss."
I stand. The noise in my head — Beatrice, the apology, the touch, Angel's warning — all of it goes silent. Replaced by the cold, precise calm that surfaces when my family is threatened.
"Get the car ready." I pull on my coat. "The Pakhan seems too desperate for a conversation."
Angel nods. Pauses. "Will Beatrice accompany us?"
I stop, one arm through my sleeve. Look at her.
"Why wouldn't she?"
"She isn't trained like me. If something —"
A low sound leaves my throat. Not a word. Something closer to a growl.
"Why do you think I pay you seven figures a year?" I step toward her. Every trace of the man who was tucking hair behind someone's ear five minutes ago is gone. "You lead the security team under me, Angel. Don't make me regret choosing you."
Angel straightens. Jaw set. "Yes, Boss."
I don't wait. When it comes to family, I don't hesitate.
Rage floods through me — clean, focused, familiar. The Pakhan made his move at my family's celebration. Targeted my mother. Nearly killed two hundred people under my protection.
And now I know who he is.
The warmth from this morning will have to wait.