ISLA

Nine Years Later

Red.

It is everywhere, drenching the room in its rich, provocative splendor. Red, like the taste of dark cherries and the burn of vintage wine. Red, like whispered temptations and silent threats lurking behind polite smiles. The color of love and war. Of passion and destruction.

Of blood.

Women glide through the space in floor-length gowns of ruby and crimson, their lips painted dark, curling around the rims of champagne flutes as they laugh—light, carefree, unaware or perhaps indifferent to the dangerous undercurrents weaving through the air. Conversations drip with subtle power plays, quiet seductions, veiled warnings. It is a world of elegance and cruelty, wrapped in the scent of expensive perfume and aged whiskey.

And I am in the center of it all.

The weight of gazes settles on me the moment I enter, admiration laced with fear. It has taken years—nine long, grueling years—to rebuild what was lost, to shape the ashes of my past into something indomitable. The name Moreau had almost disappeared that night. I resurrected it. Rebuilt it. Turned it into something no one could touch.

"Miss Moreau."

A deep, gravel-rough voice pulls me from my thoughts.

I turn, my expression unreadable, as Falcon Torres steps forward, his eyes gleaming with something between respect and curiosity. Dressed in a sharp wine-red suit, his slicked-back hair reveals the sharp angles of his face, softened only by the creases near his eyes. He has been in this world longer than me, watched as I climbed my way to the top, turning whispered doubts into grudging admiration.

He smiles, bowing his head slightly. "You honor us with your presence tonight."

I tip my glass ever so slightly in acknowledgment, offering him nothing more than a faint, polished smile. He launches into practiced praises, speaking of how I've built the Moreau name from the ashes, surpassing all expectations. The weight of old men's approval means little to me, but I indulge him, nodding at the right moments, pretending to care about his admiration.

But then he utters that name.

"My condolences, of course, for your brother," Falcon says, his tone attempting sympathy. "Tragic what happened—"

My smile vanishes.

The air turns razor-sharp. My grip on the crystal flute tightens, but my face remains carefully composed, though my eyes—my eyes warn.

Silence clings between us like a delicate thread stretched too thin.

Falcon, a man who has likely stared down ruthless men in dimly lit boardrooms, seems to wither under my gaze. He clears his throat, murmuring a hasty apology before excusing himself with a weak smile.

Ridiculous.

I drain the rest of my drink and turn away, the silk of my gown trailing behind me, the deep red fabric pooling like liquid velvet against the marble floor. The gala is in full swing—glasses clinking, laughter chiming, power deals sealed with the curve of a smirk rather than a handshake. It is hosted by Henry Whitmore, another display of wealth and prestige under the guise of charity. As the heir to Moreau and its CEO, my presence is not just expected—it is a necessity.

Still, I barely hear the chatter around me, lost for a moment in the ghost of a memory.

Mathieu should have been here. Had that night never happened, he would have stood beside me, drink in hand, that effortlessly charming smirk on his face as he played the room like a master musician. He would have thrived in this world of polished deception, his name whispered in admiration rather than in mourning.

A ghost of a smile touches my lips. He would have hated my dress.

The thought should amuse me, but it doesn't. Because lingering on it too long, on him too long, would only pull me back into that dark space—where grief festers like an unhealed wound, where the flames of that night never died, where I still hear his voice calling my name before the fire swallowed him whole.

No.

I refuse to go there.

Lifting my chin, I slip seamlessly back into the role the world expects of me. Isla Moreau, untouchable and ruthless. The woman who turned tragedy into power.

Men flock towards me, drawn by power as much as beauty. They hover, offering drinks laced with unspoken propositions, slipping business inquiries into conversations that sound like flirtations, their voices oozing calculated charm.

But I am not interested.

I smile, polite but detached, weaving through them with effortless grace. Their attention does not thrill me; if anything, it exhausts me. Power-hungry men are all the same—charming until you have nothing left to give, persistent until you become unattainable, then desperate when you prove yourself beyond their reach.

I slip past another attempt at conversation and move toward the bar, where a familiar figure stands nursing a glass of scotch.

"Ethan Bellerose," I say lightly, letting my voice carry just enough to catch his attention. "Toujours si occupé—always so busy you don't even notice me approaching."

Ethan turns at the sound of my voice, a slow smile curling on his lips. His striking blue eyes, so similar to mine yet a shade darker, twinkle with amusement as they meet mine.

"Isla," he says, warmth lacing my name.

We greet each other the way the French do—a brief press of cheeks, the scent of his cologne sharp but familiar. He hands me a glass of champagne without needing to ask, and I accept it with a slight nod.

"You'd be surprised what my alcohol tolerance is." I sip the golden liquid, letting its crisp bubbles slide down my throat effortlessly.

Ethan chuckles, shaking his head. "J'en doute—I doubt that."

We have known each other for years. He was Mathieu's best friend, but time has made him my brother too. There are few people in this world I allow into my orbit without scrutiny, and Ethan Bellerose is one of them.

He watches me for a beat, his expression shifting. "How are your parents?"

"Well," I say simply. It is the truth and also a well-crafted response. Ethan knows better than to pry further.

He nods before I ask him the same. He sighs and takes a sip of his drink. "Still expecting me to be someone I have no interest in becoming."

A ghost of a smile touches my lips. "That sounds familiar."

Then, as if remembering something, his gaze gleams with mischief. "Do you remember that summer in Nice, when you—"

I groan before he can finish. "Mon Dieu, don't start."

But he laughs, unabashed. "You fell into the ocean trying to impress an instructor—a completely unremarkable one, if I remember correctly—by pretending to be an expert in sailing."

"I was eleven," I huff, lifting my chin.

Ethan smirks. "Exactly. Too young to be pretending and too proud to admit you couldn't swim."

I chuckle, shaking my head. "And you? You nearly set a yacht on fire because you wanted to 'experiment' with the engine."

Ethan grins shamelessly. "Now that was purely scientific curiosity."

"If these people knew what we were really like," he muses, swirling the liquid in his glass, "they wouldn't believe it."

"They only know what we allow them to," I say simply, because it's the truth.

Here, we are not the reckless children we once were, laughing too loudly and making foolish mistakes without consequence. Here, we are our surnames—Moreau. Bellerose. Impeccable. Unshakable. Ruthless.

I shift the conversation to his latest business venture, but before I can finish my sentence, the air in the room shifts.

A subtle hum moves through the crowd. Not loud, not immediate, but a ripple—hushed whispers, curious glances, a pull of attention to the center of the hall.

Ethan notices it too. His gaze follows mine as our conversation stills.

And there, under the glittering chandelier, dressed in an impeccably tailored black suit, stands him.

Ciaran Valente.

The man I truly hate.

The name alone carries its own arrogance, but he wears it like a badge of honor, standing in the eye of the room's attention with an ease that makes my blood simmer. The black fabric of his suit fits him with ruthless precision, cutting a sharp silhouette against the warm golden lights. He carries himself in a way only a Valente could—like he owns the world simply by existing in it.

I take in his sharp features, the undeniable magnetism that makes people either want to be him or kneel before him. None of it affects me. Not his broad shoulders, not the careless way his fingers adjust his cufflinks, and certainly not the cold amusement flickering in his dark eyes as he scans the room, knowing full well that people are watching.

I loathe him. I loathe everything about him.

Not just because he is a Valente. Not just because his family has been an enemy to mine long before we even met.

But because he enjoys it. Because he revels in it.