BEATRICE'S POV
The elevator doors close silently.
The chaos inside the meeting room vanishes behind steel and glass, but the rage in my blood is only getting louder. Growing teeth.
My mind keeps replaying it. Eyes looking at me like I'm filth that got misplaced — people who never had to work, bleed, or beg for their positions. Men who think women like me can only climb by spreading our legs. Women who forgot to have basic respect for other women. Ten highly educated, deeply powerful people whose eyes and words tore me open in broad daylight.
And for what?
All because I work for a man they consider the most valuable heir in this empire. The same man who threw me in front of hungry wolves. Watched them tear into me. And used my bleeding to sharpen his own teeth.
My fingers tighten around my bag strap. The burn behind my eyes is spreading into my chest. Adrien stands ahead of me, Angel beside him, already talking — how soon those ten board members will be stripped of power, how this accelerates his control over the board, how the legal notices are being drafted.
He looks calm. Too calm for someone who just used a person as bait.
I want to scream. Shout. Shake him by the shoulders and demand answers — when did I ever agree to bleed for his benefit?
I inhale sharply. He glances back at me. Our eyes meet, and the expression on his face tells me everything I need to know.
He thinks I'm grateful.
"You looked like you were going to slap Mr. Shawn." Angel's voice is clipped, almost amused.
A slap was the least of what I wanted to do. She looks me up and down, assessing. "You're more useful than I assumed."
Useful.
As if getting insulted and humiliated in front of a room full of billionaires is some kind of badge I should pin to my chest.
I look up. No smile this time. I can't mask this behind a smile. I don't have it in me right now.
"And I think you aren't as useful as I thought you were."
Angel's expression freezes. Shock — genuine, unfiltered — flickers across her face before something else replaces it. Not anger. Something closer to reassessment. Her chin tilts slightly, eyes narrowing as if seeing me for the first time.
Adrien's gaze twitches at my comment, but I don't feel the need to explain myself to either of them.
"Excuse me —"
The elevator doors open. Adrien walks out first. "My office." He doesn't look back. Angel's jaw tightens and I follow him inside.
The scarf around my neck feels suffocating inside these four walls I once thought were the most beautiful office I'd ever seen. Now they feel like a cage with expensive wallpaper.
Adrien takes off his coat. Hangs it with the same infuriating calm he does everything. Leans against his desk. Looks at me.
"Angel didn't deserve that."
And that — that quiet, even correction, delivered as if I'm the one who behaved badly today — triggers everything I've been trying to contain.
"And I deserved getting humiliated?"
The words come out harder than I intend. My throat burns. My hands tremble slightly from adrenaline I've been swallowing since that boardroom.
Adrien's expression falters. The composure cracks — just a fracture, just for a second — before he rebuilds it. But I saw it. And I'm not done.
"You planned this." I take a step closer. "You knew from the beginning that those people would tear me apart with their eyes and words alone. You needed a catalyst to cut out the rotten part of the board, and you chose me."
His jaw tightens. I can feel the weight of his gaze pressing against me like something physical.
Regret?
Apology?
Neither.
It's the look of a man whose calculation went exactly as planned — except for one variable he didn't account for.
"Yes. I knew."
A bitter laugh leaves my mouth. It doesn't sound like mine. "And you didn't think it was worth telling me?"
He pushes off the desk. Takes a step toward me. Then another. The distance between us shrinks until I can feel his body heat, until his cologne — the same scent I admired thirty minutes ago — twists something in my stomach.
"You wouldn't have reacted the same way if I'd told you."
My eyes widen. There it is. The admission. Not just that he used me — but that he needed my pain to be real. My humiliation had to be authentic for the recording to hold up. He calculated the cost and decided my dignity was an acceptable price.
"You can't use me as bait." My voice cracks at the end.
He's close enough now that I have to tilt my head up to hold his gaze. Those mismatched eyes are dark with something I can't name — not guilt, not regret, something deeper and more dangerous than both.
"And you can't accept a scarf from my rival, little terrorist."
I go still.
My grip on my bag loosens. The air in the room shifts — heavier, hotter, charged with something that has nothing to do with the argument we're having and everything to do with the one underneath it.
He knows about Theodore. He's known since this morning. Maybe before.
"So this was punishment."
Adrien holds my gaze without blinking. "No. A reminder."
"Of what?"
His voice drops — low, controlled, and carrying a weight that settles somewhere behind my ribs. "That I am the one who decides what happens in this building. Who stays. Who goes. Who gets protected. And who doesn't."
The chill that runs down my spine is immediate. Not fear. Recognition. This is the man the industry calls a tyrant. This is the heir that grown men are afraid to contradict. And right now, every ounce of that power is focused on me.
My eyes burn. I don't bend.
"You don't own me, Adrien."
First time I've used his name without his title. It lands in the room like something dropped from height. His jaw flexes. Something shifts behind his eyes — surprise, or something dangerously close to it.
"I'm your advisor. Not your possession. Stop acting like I owe you an explanation for what I do outside this building. Stop acting like I deserve punishment for taking something from someone you don't like."
He inhales sharply. A vein surfaces along his neck from how hard he's clenching his jaw. His hands stay at his sides — controlled, deliberate, as if the control itself is the only thing holding the room together.
He says nothing.
I turn on my heels. His gaze follows me — I feel it on my back like heat from an open flame.
Angel is waiting outside. Composed, untouched by whatever storm she knows just happened behind that door. She looks at me with a slight crease between her brows.
"Did you argue with Boss?"
"What if I did?"
She blinks. Studies me for a long moment. Then — quietly, almost imperceptibly — she steps aside and holds the door to my office open.
I walk in without thanking her. I can't. Not yet.
Corner office. Massive floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the Manhattan skyline. Fully furnished with black wood and leather, three bookshelves, a long couch, two armchairs. Everything inside this room screams success and access.
None of it matters when the question is about my self-respect.
Hours pass. I throw myself into work — paperwork, data analysis, market reports. I skip lunch. The scarf sits forgotten on the couch, a soft white thing that has no business looking so innocent after the morning it caused.
The tension in my body refuses to leave, even as I exhaust myself through spreadsheets. My jaw aches from clenching. My eyes sting from refusing to blink during the confrontation and from refusing to cry after it.
Then an email appears on my screen.
I frown. Unfamiliar sender. No subject line. Usually hackers send emails like this — unusual formatting, unnamed attachments. I don't click it.
My phone buzzes.
An unfamiliar international number. My instincts sharpen — something about this doesn't feel routine.
I was right.
"Beatrice Kenz. Working for Aurélien. He really kicked out ten board members because of you. Check your email. A gift from me."
I stare at the screen.
Kicked out board members because of me. So that's the narrative circulating already. Not "Adrien removed compromised directors who slandered a Laurent officer." Just — "he did it for her."
A hollow laugh escapes my chest. "So this is the story we're going with."
Another text from the same number.
"Welcome to the team of Aurélien. Though I won't say it will be a good ride. More like a highway to hell from here on."
I set my phone down slowly. Look at the email. Look at the scarf on the couch. Look at the Manhattan skyline bleeding orange through the glass.
Someone new just entered the game. And they know exactly who I am, where I work, and what happened in a private boardroom less than four hours ago.
I lean back in my chair.
This morning I had two problems. A Swiss patriarch who wants to marry me and a French heir who thinks I'm his to protect.
Now I have three.
Fuck! I just attended a fucking ball two nights ago, didn't sign up for this mess.