Naomi Belle

I discharged myself. Rightfully so. Hospitals suffocate me, and that hysterical family of mine? I could only stomach so much of their tears and hovering before my patience snapped and I went crazy on them. Unfortunately for me, nothing had been going my way lately. Not in Paris. Not here.

"Naomi, why did you come out of the ward on your own?" A voice called from the road. "You're still weak right now."

I turned—Pierre Belle, the younger one. My brother. Blond, soft-eyed, the type of boy who probably believed in chivalry and fairy tales. He leaned out of his car window, alarm dripping off his face. "Why're you on the road?"

Shit. I'm supposed to be weak.

I let my knees buckle, dropping to the ground. Pathetic on purpose. He rushed out of the car, hands fumbling as he helped me back up.

"I woke up in the room alone and didn't know what to do," I murmured, feigning fear. "I thought you guys left me there."

"I'm sorry, it's all my fault," Pierre said immediately, guilt thick in his tone. "It's my fault. I just took Mom and Dad home since they're tired. They're old so... I didn't mean to scare you."

So easy. Was everyone in this family going to be this pliable? If so... maybe I could have some fun while I'm here. Being the daughter of a rich family should come with many perks I could only dream of before, right?

I wanted to see what exactly I was entitled to.

***

Pierre led me into the mansion, the hall echoing with soft piano music and the smell of roses and wine. He pushed open a door to reveal a room that made me want to vomit. Walls painted in saccharine pink. A canopy bed dripping with lace. Shelves crammed with stuffed animals staring blankly at me.

Was this a toddlers room?

"This is the room Mom decorated for you when she found you. Do you like it?" Pierre asked, his voice hopeful.

I let my eyes wander the horror. "I've never seen so much pink before in my life."

My actual home looked nothing like this—dark leather, clean marble, men with guns stationed outside, security cameras humming. A place where every breath could mean I might kill you. Where real business happened. Dangerous business.

The contrast here was staggering. A pretty little princess's room. A doll's prison. This would take some getting used to.

"I don't know what life in a French orphanage is like," Pierre said earnestly, "but I promise there are no mean nuns here, and all the staff will be nice to you. You can eat without having to share food. No one will take it from you. You don't have to live pitifully here."

He sounded like he was auditioning for a drama. I raised an eyebrow. "Um..."

"I'll help you get used to the extravagance," he added with a smile.

He'd watched too many films. "That's not what I meant."

"Don't worry," Pierre said, reaching into his pocket. He held out three debit cards.

My brows lifted. "That's for me?"

"Yes." He nodded solemnly. "Take all three. In a few days we plan on holding a grand family reunion and announcing to everyone that the princess of the Belle family is back. I'll take you shopping, so just buy whatever you want using those cards."

I slid them from his hand, feeling their smooth edges between my fingers. Is this how the rich play? Handing out money like candy? It felt... nice.

"I've also got to make a stop at the back alley markets," Pierre continued casually, unaware of how dangerous his words were. "You can buy some really rare, foreign, imported things there. It's called The Grand Lady. Want to go with me?"

I froze.

The Grand Lady.

My chain. My empire's veins in America. A labyrinth of illegal lounges where the worst of the worst drank, smoked, plotted, and paid. Where politicians slipped in and out of shadows. Where secrets were currency.

Pierre was a dumb twenty-year-old boy. He couldn't possibly understand what The Grand Lady really was.

"See this invitation?" He held up a stiff piece of paper, grinning. "I spent a lot of money to get one."

My stomach twisted with rage. My brand didn't do paper invites. No trails. Whoever handed him that had either been a fool or had a death wish when they used my establishment to scam people.

Worst this could lead to exposure.

"Who did you get this from?" I asked smoothly.

"My good friend Zack. Very nice guy, almost eager to give these away," Pierre said. "I can introduce you two when we get there."

I smiled, slow and sweet. "I can't wait to go."

But inside, fire roared.

Whoever was impersonating me—whoever thought they could profit off my empire, drag my name through dirt, and use my brother as bait—was about to die.

They had a fucking death wish.

***

"Invitation?" the hostess droned, barely looking up from her podium, nails tapping against the clipboard like she had better things to do.

I glanced sideways at Pierre, tugging at my cardigan like I was freezing. "Pierre, I'm a bit cold, can you grab my sweater from the car?"

"Oh, sure! I'll get it for you," he said immediately, all sunshine and good intentions. He pressed the flimsy tickets into my hand and jogged off like a puppy on command.

Perfect.

I turned back to the hostess, sliding the counterfeit across the podium. I lowered my voice, sharp. "Exchange this for a real invite."

"Huh?" She gave me a once-over, smirk tugging at her lips. "Did you sneak in here or something? The park with the good swings is down the block. A little thing like you shouldn't be here. Run along."

I nearly laughed. America. Of course they didn't know me here. I leaned in, words like venom. "Je suis la Grande Dame, obéis."

Her face drained of color. She froze, throat bobbing. "You're... oh no! I only heard, but I had no idea you were— I-I didn't recognize you like this, La Grande Dame. My mistake! I'll dispose of this immediately, forgive me—"

"That's more like it." I flicked my fingers dismissively. "Don't blow my cover. While I'm here, find out who's making these fake invites. They can't go unpunished."

She bowed her head so fast her hair nearly slapped her in the face.

"I've got your sweater!" Pierre came bounding back, breathless, holding out a fluffy pink cardigan like it was treasure. He draped it over my shoulders carefully, as if I might break. "Where's the invite?"

"Oh, you can go in," the hostess beamed at him, sweet as honey now.

I followed behind Pierre, slow and unhurried. Couldn't look too eager.

The door opened to a rush of heat and noise. The bar was dim and crowded, air thick with smoke that clawed down my throat and begged for a cigarette. The counter was overwhelmed, bartenders barely keeping up with the shouting crowd. In one corner, strippers danced on tables, stilettos clacking against wood. In another, furniture had been shoved aside so two drunk bastards could wrestle on the floor while others cheered and threw bills.

Messy. But at least more tame than the den in France.

"Yo!" A voice cut through the din, aimed at me. A guy swaggered forward, grin too wide. "I haven't seen you around here before. Where'd you come from? Why are you here?"

"Get lost!" Pierre snapped, puffing up like he had claws.

The guy barked out a laugh. "Why're you acting tough? Do you know who I am? My brother's Francis—he's one of the top guys here." He puffed out his chest, waiting for awe.

Francis? The name barely rang a bell. Probably some bottom-feeder clinging to scraps of my empire. And this idiot thought he could act tough on my turf?

"Security!" Pierre yelled.

I almost groaned. What security? This wasn't the goddamn Ritz.

The guy sneered, leaning in. "You trying to leave already? Did hearing who I am scare you? And what security do you think is gonna help? Don't be an idiot—everyone here can defend themselves. No one's gonna help you at all."

If this escalated, I'd have to blow my cover. What a shitty, shitty situation. "Pierre, let's just get out of here," I muttered. "Don't tell them who you are."

"What's the problem? Someone get this guy out of here!" the idiot snapped at the crowd. He jabbed a thumb toward Pierre. "Just beat him up. Don't let them hurt the girl. She's just my type."

"Excuse me?" My voice cut like glass.

"Don't worry, I'm gentle with women." He smirked. "Why don't you spend the night with me?"

"Get back!" Pierre shouted, but his voice cracked. He was shaking so hard, I almost pitied him. Almost.

A few heads turned, eyes narrowing, watching the scene unfold. Interest sparked in the smoke.

Perfect. An audience.

And now I had to figure out a way to shut this clown down without blowing my identity wide open.

What a pain in my ass.