Chapter 6: Paris in Flames

The flight was dead quiet.

Not the peaceful kind, but the kind that presses on your chest until it hurts to breathe.

Isla sat stiffly by the window, arms locked around herself like a shield. Her dress had creases from where her fingers wouldn’t stop clenching it. Across from her, Ares was the picture of detachment legs crossed, eyes glued to his tablet, like the chaos erupting online hadn’t even scratched the surface of his mood.

He hadn’t looked at her once.

Not even after the internet turned her name into venom.

She stared out at the endless sky, but the headlines flashed behind her eyes like fire:

Ares Valkas’ new fiancée: desperate gold digger or PR stunt?

Seraphina Vaughn seen leaving Valkas estate trouble already?

Who is Isla Quinn? The woman stealing headlines and Ares’ fortune.

Her voice trembled, but she forced it out. “You’re really not going to say anything?”

Ares didn’t flinch. “About what?”

She laughed, hollow and sharp. “About the fact that half the world thinks I’m either a prostitute or your shiny new pawn.”

“You are a pawn.” His voice was ice. “And you knew what you were signing.”

“You could’ve warned me!”

He glanced up, calm like a storm behind glass. “You could’ve read the contract.”

Her breath caught in her throat. Rage curled behind her ribs.

“You let your ex parade through your house. You let the press destroy me. And now you’re acting like none of it matters!”

The tablet clacked onto the table. He looked at her finally, and the weight of that gaze almost knocked the breath out of her.

“It doesn’t. Not to me. What matters is whether you can take it.”

“I’m not some robot you wind up for photo ops, Ares. I’m a person.”

“No,” he said, voice dipped in something darker. “You’re mine. That means you carry my name, my image. So sit down. And get a grip.”

Her knees buckled as she dropped into the seat again.

Her whisper cracked in the silence. “I hate you.”

“Good.” He lifted the tablet without emotion. “Hate means you’re awake.”

Paris glowed like a dream on the outside. Inside, Isla felt like she was walking through a nightmare.

The hotel looked like a castle carved from gold. Their footsteps echoed across polished marble, past velvet ropes and chandeliers that didn’t care about broken hearts.

Cameras flared outside. She didn’t blink. She wore the silver gown he picked, heels that pinched her toes, a perfect face that didn’t feel like hers anymore.

“You’ll walk beside me,” he said. “Smile. Don’t speak. Stay three steps back unless I say otherwise.”

“And if I don’t?”

The elevator hummed around them. He turned, and his voice went quiet and sharp like a blade against silk. “Then the next headline will bury you. And I won’t stop it.”

The gala was suffocating.

Too much perfume, too many stares, too many masks pretending to be faces.

Isla followed the rules. She smiled. She nodded. She played the part.

And then she walked in.

Seraphina.

Every inch of her wrapped in green silk like envy personified, fingers linked with some high-ranking diplomat, lips curved in the kind of smirk that made Isla’s spine crawl.

Ares stiffened.

“Don’t look at her,” he muttered under his breath.

“She’s coming straight at us.”

“I said ….”

“Bonsoir,” Seraphina purred, stepping into their space like she belonged there. “Ares, darling. Isla… that’s a very brave little outfit.”

Isla swallowed the sting. “Nice to see you too.”

“Oh, look at that. You’ve learned to talk back.” Seraphina tilted her head. “How precious.”

Ares cut in, voice flat. “Isla. Get us champagne.”

Her jaw clenched. “Excuse me?”

He didn’t look at her. “Champagne. Now.”

The word gutted her. She turned without another breath and walked away, her pride dragging behind her like a torn train.

The bar felt like a hiding place.

Her hands gripped the counter, knuckles white. Her voice barely made it out. “What the hell am I doing here…”

A quiet chuckle answered. “That’s what I was wondering.”

She turned.

A man stood beside her, sharp suit, darker eyes, something dangerous in his calm. Maybe late thirties. Ridiculously handsome.

Familiar.

“You’re….?”

“Lucian Vale,” he said, offering his hand. “Vale International.”

Her hand met his without thinking. “I’ve heard of you.”

“Most people have. I used to work with Ares. Before he burned the bridge.”

She blinked. “Why are you telling me that?”

“Because I’ve never seen him this rattled. And I wanted to meet the woman who did it.”

“He’s not rattled.”

Lucian leaned in just a little. “He is scared when something matters.”

Across the gala, Ares was watching.

His jaw was set like stone.

His assistant sipped champagne beside him. “Who’s that?”

“Lucian Vale,” he said, voice razor sharp.

“Should I cut in?”

“No.” The word was clipped. “Let her think she’s clever.”

The assistant smiled knowingly. “You’re jealous.”

“I don’t get jealous.”

But the glass in his hand cracked from the pressure of his grip.

She returned to the suite alone.

The gown slipped off her shoulders as she stood in front of the mirror, bare feet silent on the marble.

Lucian’s voice rang in her ears.

He’s scared when something matters.

Her fingers touched the mirror. Her reflection didn’t flinch. But her heart did.

The phone buzzed.

Ares: You embarrassed yourself.

She stared at the message, blood pulsing in her ears. Then typed:

Isla: By speaking to someone who treats me like I exist?

The three dots blinked. Then vanished.

Morning sunlight bled through the curtains when Ares barged in.

She didn’t move. Hair tangled, eyes swollen from tears she thought had dried hours ago.

“I don’t remember approving a day off,” he said flatly.

“I don’t remember being treated like a person.”

He didn’t bite. Just tossed a folder onto the bed. It slid to her side, flipping open on scandal after scandal. Photos. Headlines. Lies.

“You think I did this?” Her voice cracked with disbelief.

“I think you don’t know how to play.”

She stood, clutching the folder. “I’m not playing. I’m surviving.”

He stepped closer, shadows curling behind his stare. “Then act like it.”

She shoved the folder into his chest. “I’m not your puppet.”

“No,” he said quietly. “You’re something far more dangerous.”

“What?”

He hesitated. For once, his eyes betrayed something that looked like fear.

“You’re unpredictable.”

Later, Ares stood on the balcony. Paris sparkled beyond the glass.

His assistant joined him, voice cautious. “You alright?”

Silence.

“She’s different.”

“That’s the problem.”

“What scares you?”

He turned slowly, eyes darker than the night sky. “That I won’t be able to break her.”

Back inside, Isla lay curled under the sheets.

The silence was louder than anything else.

Some part of her still wanted to believe there was a heart buried under Ares’ armor.

But another part… the part that had been crushed and stepped on and ignored?

It was beginning to spark.

Not with love.

Not with hate.

But something far more dangerous.

Hope.