Stephen Smith

The view of the siblings from the second floor was pretty interesting.

When my father told me he'd made a deal with the Belle family to marry me off to one of their kids if they had a daughter, I nearly disowned him on the spot. I didn't want to meet her at all. I'd actually been perfectly content with the arrangement being nothing more than ink on paper, her lost somewhere in France.

I was planning on never seeing her in my life.

But then the old man said she was suddenly coming to America. And apparently, I had to meet her before another man got to her.

The Belle family. Spineless idealists. The type to talk about saving the world while ignoring the ones they trampled over in the process which was many. How else do you get so rich? A family of useful idiots at best. And if Naomi Belle was anything like the rest of them, I'd make it very clear: we were never going to happen. She better fuck off back to France.

The hospital should've proven me right. She barely glanced at me before attacking. Tied me to the damn bed and bolted out of a third story window like I was some pathetic stranger in the street. How dare she?

But what I was seeing now... that was something else.

Pierre, her fool of a brother, was begging for a fight downstairs. And right behind him—her. Naomi.

My first real look at her hit me harder than I wanted to admit. Black hair that gleamed under the lights, eyes so green they caught like glass, a softness in her face that had no business in this cesspool of smoke and strippers. She looked like innocence, but staring at her made sweat bead at the back of my neck. Something primal stirred—a reaction I didn't like. An atomic bomb disguised as something fragile.

"Don't hurt my brother!" Naomi said. She sounded frightened, but I doubted it. Her calm face betrayed her. Too calm for a girl who supposedly had never fought before.

The thug swung. Naomi yanked Pierre back effortlessly, avoiding the blow. He swung again, and again, each time she pulled Pierre into perfect position to dodge, making the idiot stumble like a drunk. Elegant. Controlled.

"Interesting," I murmured.

"What is?" John asked beside me, sipping his drink like we weren't perched above a brawl.

"That girl," I said, eyes fixed on her. "She's pretending to be weak, but she's steering the fight. Got her brother out of danger without lifting a hand herself."

"Isn't that your fiancée, Mr. Smith?" John asked.

"Yeah. That's her."

Below, Pierre puffed his chest out, deluded. "D-don't be afraid, Naomi! Your big brother's got this!"

Pathetic. Why wasn't she ending it herself? She clearly could.

The idiot thug, frustrated, pulled out a knife. "Listen here, girl! Come to me right now, and I won't hurt you or your brother!"

Before Naomi even twitched, I had my pistol drawn. One squeeze of the trigger and the knife flew from his hand, clattering to the ground as blood poured from his fingers.

Why did I do that? I don't care if she's hurt.

"AHH! WHAT IDIOT IS SHOOTING IN THE MARKET?!" he screamed.

The entire bar went dead silent. Heads turned, all eyes snapping up to me.

I rested the barrel against the balcony railing. "Is what you're doing necessary?" I asked, voice even.

"Oh—it's just Mr. Smith!" the thug stammered, laughter cracked and false. "This whole thing's a misunderstanding, nothing more! Let's just let it go, yeah? Continue the party?"

Of course. They thought I owned this place. That I was the man behind The Grand Lady. That I was a criminal who built empires with one hand and destroyed them with the other. Truth was simpler: I came here to see what businesses to avoid, what weeds would choke the city's garden. The gun was only part of my performance.

I wasn't about to correct them though. Safer to let the myth breathe. Safer to let the ghost of La Grande Dame keep me covered.

"Apologize to my sister!" Pierre demanded, puffing up like a pigeon. Idiot.

The thug looked to me. I crossed my arms. That was enough.

"Ha... little lady, I hope you don't mind the joke," he forced a laugh. "Don't take it to heart."

Naomi's lips curved into something soft. Too soft. "It's okay. It's no crime to be ignorant. We're all friends here, right? No need to stop because of me."

"Ay! And the lady's nice too! Even better than a live doll!"

Something in the air shifted. Naomi looked naïve enough, smiling lightly, eyes wide. But I saw it. That quiet anger behind her. That wasn't forgiveness—it was patience. A dangerous kind.

There was too much of a crowd for her to move. That was the only thing holding her back.

And I realized, watching from above, that I probably wasn't the one in control here.

She was.

She suddenly stared up at me and glared.

Not the sweet, wide-eyed expression she'd worn moments ago. Not the innocent mask that made men mistake her for soft. No, this was raw, ugly hatred that twisted her pretty face into something sharp enough to cut through me.

A shiver ran straight down my spine. It wasn't a chill—it was the feeling of prey spotting the predator's teeth. For one terrible second, I felt like a trapped mouse.

"Sir, it doesn't look like she appreciates what you did for her," John said evenly at my side.

What, was she supposed to throw herself into my arms? Whisper thank you like this was some fairytale? Please. This wasn't a storybook—it was real life.

"Who cares," I muttered, rolling my eyes. "I don't even know what the girl wants."

But I knew one thing: there was no way we'd ever live peacefully. Certainly not as husband and wife, no matter what our parents dreamed up.

"She'll definitely want you, sir," John pressed, his tone annoyingly certain. "Every girl in the city wants a piece of the legendary bachelor. I'm sure she'll be grateful she was chosen."

"I didn't choose her. My dad did." The words came out sharp. "And only because he thinks the Belle family is irresponsible."

"Why?" John asked.

"They lost a kid in a foreign country. Isn't that terrible?" I scoffed. "Now my dad says it's my job to make things okay for her."

The old man thought I was blind. But I knew exactly what game he was playing. He'd been in love with Mrs. Belle since they were teenagers, orbiting her life under the excuse of friendship, waiting for a door that would never open. Obsession had ruined him. Drove my mother away, actually—she'd known he never loved her, knew she had to drug him just to have me.

Now he was trying to twist me into the prize of his pathetic fantasy.

Well, I wanted no part of it.

Naomi, beautiful as she was, wasn't right for me. She scared me, for one thing. Too strong, too clever, too hard to pin down. And even if she wasn't, what was I supposed to do with a girl raised in the gutter of some French orphanage? She probably didn't know the first thing about high society. Did I really need the embarrassment of dragging her into my world while she fumbled every step? My reputation was immaculate. I wasn't going to risk it.

"You haven't even tried to get to know her, Mr. Smith," John said. "Maybe you'll like her. She's very pretty."

The words made my jaw clench. I didn't want to hear other men calling her pretty. "She's not my type."

"With all due respect, sir," John smirked, "do you even have a type? I thought your perfect girl was our weekly itinerary."

I narrowed my eyes, but he wasn't wrong.

"Business is life," I said flatly. "The perfect woman for me can only be successful business. There's no reason to complicate that."

"Still glaring at us, sir," John observed, glancing back down.

I followed his gaze. Sure enough, she was still looking right at me. Not at the gun. Not at Pierre. At me. Like I'd wronged her personally, like the whole damn world had narrowed to Stephen Smith and whatever grudge she had in those green eyes.

Enough. I raised the gun and leveled it straight at her.

Her legs buckled instantly. Pierre caught her before she hit the floor.

Strange. She hadn't flinched when I'd fired earlier, but now she was collapsing like she'd been shot herself. Why? Acting weak again?

Wait... could it be she couldn't actually fight, only knew a little self-defense? That would explain why she only maneuvered Pierre instead of striking herself. A lot of women in France took those lessons for safety. But if that was the case—how was she so good at it?

None of it made sense.

"Let's monitor her before I make a decision," I said finally, lowering the gun.

Naomi Belle. No one had ever confused me this much before.

Maybe I'd talk to her.

Just once.