BEATRICE'S POV
Conversation flows like wine around me. Expensive laughter, controlled politeness, questions designed to test who belongs and who doesn't. Art, vacations, business ventures, charity galas, designer collections — everything I have no real knowledge of.
The steak feels raw in my mouth with each bite as I catch eyes on me — measuring, judging, filing me away. Adrien doesn't introduce me. Doesn't include me in conversation. I sit next to the most powerful young man in the room and somehow feel more invisible than if I'd come alone.
My chest tightens every time someone casually drops a reference to a chalet in Gstaad or an art gallery in Paris and glances my way to see if I follow.
Olivia Ashcombe looks at me. Her silent grace makes her look like a white swan — beautiful, composed, and fully aware of the effect.
"So, what does your family do, Beatrice?"
Family. Status. Leverage. The familiar currency of high society and rooms like this — designed to measure a person's worth by their surname and background.
"My father used to run a small business. My mother is a traditional homemaker."
"Oh — your father is no more?" Softness in her voice. It sounds like sympathy. I know better.
I smile. "No, he's alive. He stopped working for personal reasons."
The temperature around the table shifts. People recalibrate. The woman sitting next to Adrien Aurélien Laurent has an ordinary family, an ordinary background, and no dynasty behind her name.
The quiet judgment is almost funny.
Mr. Hamza hums thoughtfully. He's sipping orange juice with an expression I can't quite read. "You're more impressive than I expected."
My eyes flutter toward him in surprise. Olivia narrows her gaze, displeasure barely concealed.
He nods in my direction. "Usually, the people who sit at these tables are born into the system. Trained from birth to be suitable and sharp." A pause. His expression warms, wrinkles softening near his eyes. "You made your own way. That's rare."
Something inside my chest loosens. I didn't realize how badly I needed someone — anyone — to acknowledge my work without implying I got lucky. The sting behind my eyes catches me off guard.
The Chairman nods slowly, cutting his steak. "True. I've been getting bored of the same faces." A smooth grin crosses his lips as he glances my way. "New minds are always more exciting than old ones. Isn't that right?"
Someone chuckles politely. But the way he looked at the others while saying it carried weight beyond casual observation.
Olivia presses her lips tight, thumb rubbing over the emerald ring on her right hand. Adrien taps the table twice and the door opens.
I turn my head.
Lucian Rothenburg and Killian Vanderbilt walk in.
Lucian — messy hair, top three buttons undone, looking every bit the playboy he presents himself as. Killian flashes a warm smile at the Chairman.
"It's been a while, Uncle."
The Chairman grins like a proud father. "Killian. Lucie."
Lucian smirks, waving lazily. "Hello, old people. And —" he pauses, eyes sweeping over Adrien, Olivia, and me, "— young people."
They take the empty chairs beside me. Lucian winks. "Hello there, Betty."
I frown and whisper, "I don't think I ever gave you permission to use my nickname."
He shrugs like it's the least of his concerns and leans closer, playful. "In that case, you can call me Lucie."
"Sounds like a girl's name."
He presses his hands together. "I am a worshiper of women."
He's ridiculous. Infuriating. But I can feel my nerves loosening for the first time since I sat down, and I'm oddly grateful for it.
Then Adrien sets his glass down. Louder than necessary. The sound catches me mid-breath.
"You two seem close enough to be on a nickname basis." His voice is even, but his eyes are sharp with something that goes past displeasure.
I open my mouth, but Lucian is faster — wrapping one arm around my shoulder with a grin bright enough to light the room. "Yes, we are."
The Chairman looks at us, amused. "Does Lucie know my son's new advisor?"
Lucian nods without removing his arm. "Yeah. See, just yesterday — Sarah, you know, Olivia's cousin —" he nods to himself without letting anyone else speak, "— she dropped by your company. And I happened to be there meeting with the security head about the arson attempt at the anniversary gala, since my brother's busy with family matters. I saw on the CCTV that Sarah was assaulting Betty, and being the gentleman that I am, I stepped in. We became friends."
The room goes silent.
Nobody breathes louder than necessary.
Olivia's face drains of color. Hamza looks stunned. Killian covers his face with both hands, eyes closed. Adrien looks like he's calculating the most efficient way to end Lucian's life.
Lucian, too proud of his own bravery, just smiles. Bright. Innocent. Completely unrepentant.
But the Chairman — his eyes darken. The warmth from moments ago vanishes like it was never there.
He turns to Adrien. Icy blue eyes glinting with unspoken authority. "Is that true?"
Adrien takes a slow sip of wine. "I've dealt with it."
The Chairman's gaze moves to Olivia. A ruthless smile forms on his lips — the kind that makes everyone at the table sweat through their expensive shirts.
"Olivia. I trust you'll let your cousin know... any harm to an employee of my company is a direct strike against my authority." Slow. Unhurried. He lets every word land. "You understand."
Not a question.
Olivia bites her lip and nods. Every trace of earlier composure gone.
The Chairman turns to me. "You okay?"
I blink, disoriented by how fast the room pivoted. "Yes, Chairman."
He looks at me. Really looks at me. The weight of it makes the back of my neck prickle. "Did my son compensate you?"
"...Huh?"
Adrien glances at his father, bored and slightly annoyed. "Dad. I know how to handle things."
The Chairman shrugs. "Just checking. I like smart women in my company."
The room slowly returns to its rhythm, but Olivia stays quiet for the rest of the meal. Lucian, on the other hand, doesn't stop talking.
"Won't you thank me?" he whispers, eyes sparkling with mischief.
I narrow my eyes. "Why would I?"
He taps his nose thoughtfully. "Because I helped you."
"I didn't ask for help."
He pouts, tilting his head back dramatically. "Rude. But I'll let you off the hook since you're my friend."
My eyes widen. "I never agreed to be your friend."
He winks. "Who says I need your permission? We're friends now, Betty."
I open my mouth to fire back, then remember where I am. I bite my tongue, force a smile, and whisper: "Shut up."
He grins and happily returns to his steak. I sigh and look away.
I can feel Adrien's gaze on me. I don't turn to meet it.
The lunch ends. Hamza invites me to join him at his golf club sometime. The Chairman gives me a final, unreadable look before walking out. Lucian winks on his way past with Killian.
The room empties. But Adrien stays in his chair.
I stand. "I'll take my leave."
He says nothing. I take the silence as permission and start walking toward the door.
Before I can pull it open, I feel him behind me. His cologne — woody, cider, rainforest — fills the space between us with a tension that's become unbearably familiar. His hand presses flat against the door beside my head, holding it shut.
"Did I tell you to leave?"
His voice drops low. Something in my stomach twists — annoyance and rage and maybe something that hurts more than either.
I turn around. He lowers his head to match my eye level.
"What makes you think I need your permission?"
Adrien's eyes darken. His breath brushes my skin. But in this moment, all I can think about is every time he's pulled me into a situation I didn't choose.
"You were talking to Lucian."
I cross my arms. Tilt my chin up. "He's nice."
Adrien inhales sharply, like he's physically restraining himself. "Nice?" The word comes out edged. "Are you aware of his reputation?"
I let out a breath of disbelief. "Reputation? Don't you have a reputation for protecting your people?" It comes out sharper than I intend, carrying something I didn't realize I'd been holding — even after he showed up at my doorstep in the rain.
Adrien's jaw clenches. A vein surfaces along his neck. His fist tightens against the door.
I don't hold back.
"First the boardroom. Then Sarah Ashcombe broke into my office and had me restrained. And now today — this lunch." My voice rises. "You didn't even introduce me."
"I didn't need to introduce you. Everyone already knows who you are."
"That doesn't matter, Adrien."
His name. No title. No Aurélien. His pupils dilate, but I don't stop.
"I stood in that room like a fool. I sat next to you like a statue. If it hadn't been for Hamza, Olivia would have taken me apart. And you —" a hollow laugh escapes me, "— you did nothing."
Adrien's expression fractures. His brow creases like he wants to say something, but nothing comes out.
My hands are shaking. I don't want to admit it, but this is hurting me. He is affecting me emotionally, and I hate how weak and small and raw I feel standing in front of him.
"You show up at my doorstep after losing your way in a storm, but you never stand beside me when it actually matters. You use me and then try to claim some stake over who I talk to —"
"Shut up."
I don't.
"You dragged me into a world I never asked to enter. Made me your advisor. Made me visible to people who see me as a target —"
"Shut up."
My chest burns. My head spins. I know I should stop, but the audacity of this man is pulling words out of me I can't swallow back.
I step closer. "And now you have a problem with me talking to Lucian — when you sat at that table knowing they would try to tear me down for being an outsider, and you didn't do a single thing to make it easier —"
"I said shut up, Beatrice Kenz."
He grabs my shoulders. Hard. His eyes are blazing, hands trembling, chest rising and falling fast. My heart sinks and I freeze.
"Don't speak about things you don't understand." His voice cracks at the end.
I blink. Once. Twice.
"You don't let me understand anything. You give me orders and expect me to follow."
Adrien pauses. The fire in those blue-green eyes dims. And then, quietly, he says:
"You're an employee. I don't need to share things with you."
The words land like a blade pressed slowly into my chest.
His grip loosens. He steps back. The controlled Laurent heir slides back into place over whatever was underneath — and the door between us closes without a sound.
A small, bitter laugh leaves my mouth. It hurts more than it should.
"Right. I'm your employee."
My eyes blur with tears I refuse to let fall. Adrien stands in front of me — unreadable, untouched, sealed shut.
"I'll keep that in mind," I whisper.
His Adam's apple shifts slightly. But those cold eyes don't change.
"Good. You should leave."
I turn on my heels and walk out. And I don't let a single tear fall until I'm past the front door of the restaurant.
The sky splits open.
Rain pours down — loud, merciless, and so heavy it drowns out the traffic and the voices and everything inside my head except the one sentence I can't stop hearing.
You're an employee.
Hot tears mix with cold rain on my cheeks. I hate it. I hate how much it hurts. I hate that I let him get close enough for it to hurt.
A choked sound escapes my throat. I look back at the second-floor window. Adrien is standing there, expression like a storm that can't decide whether to break or hold. I know he can see me.
He turns his back.
I start walking. Careless of how soaked I'm getting. Careless of the thunder that makes me flinch every few steps. Maybe I just expected him to treat me as more than something disposable. Something replaceable.
I realize it bitterly — Angel was right. Unlike her, unlike Sophia, unlike Sarah and Olivia — I don't have a name that opens doors or makes me matter.
Then the rain stops falling on me.
I look up. A black umbrella blocks the sky.
I turn around.
Theodore stands behind me, holding the umbrella over my head. The height difference means the rain is pouring directly onto his shoulders, soaking through his jacket while I stay dry.
"You shouldn't get drenched in rain. You'll get sick."
My lips tremble. My eyes fill again.
He blinks rapidly. Something close to panic crosses his face. "Wait — did I sound too harsh? Why are you crying?"
One man makes me cry by making me feel disposable.
Another holds an umbrella over my head and panics thinking he was too harsh.
"If you want," he offers carefully, face calm but those violet eyes full of clueless, earnest effort, "we can get drenched in the rain together."
"You just told me I'd get sick. Won't you get sick if you're drenched?"
He's already soaked. Still holding the umbrella over me.
"I'm stronger than you. You're tiny. I can't bear the thought of you bedridden."
The tightness in my shoulders loosens. This man is ridiculous in how genuine he is.
"So?" He tilts his head.
I reach up and hold his wrist. Gently push the umbrella away from over my head.
"Let's get drenched. At worst, both of us end up bedridden."
Theodore's eyes widen slightly. Then soften — visibly, completely — as a small, real smile forms on his lips.
"Doesn't sound like a bad idea."