The Beaumont Revenge

The Moreau headquarters was alive with activity. The skyscraper, the tallest in La Joilette, Marseille, stood as a gleaming symbol of power. Entrance into the building was reserved strictly for VIPs. Just a few kilometers away, the oil and gas refinery roared with industry — both owned by Adrien Moreau.

Adrien Moreau was not just a billionaire; he was a man whose presence commanded silence. At thirty-four, he had mastered the ruthless art of survival and domination. Orphaned at eighteen, with no siblings to share his burden, Adrien had rebuilt his family’s legacy with sweat, blood, and unrelenting vengeance.

He was tall, broad-chested, and rarely smiled — except for carefully curated photographs with deal partners. His eyes, usually hidden behind black shades, missed nothing. Adrien was not like other billionaires. His empire was not merely a business; it was a weapon. Every steel hull bearing the Moreau name was a monument to survival, to the promise he had made at eighteen beside his parents’ grave: to rise again, no matter the cost.

That promise had a name. The Beaumonts.

Even now, the name twisted like iron in his chest. Once, the Moreaus and the Beaumonts had been equals — two French dynasties bound by respect, rivalry, and generational wealth. But equality had not been enough for the Beaumonts. With calculated cruelty, they had orchestrated his father’s downfall: sabotaged deals, bribed partners, lies whispered into the right ears.

The Moreau dynasty had crumbled overnight. His father, destroyed by shame, had died of a stroke. His mother followed just two days later. Adrien had been left with nothing but rage and a vow for vengeance.

Sixteen years later, he had rebuilt what had been taken from him. At thirty-four, he stood again at the top — billionaire, oil and gas tycoon, feared in Marseille, respected in Paris, courted in Dubai and New York. He had everything. Wealth. Power. Loyalty.

But revenge… revenge was the empire he had yet to complete.

Adrien swirled a glass of wine as the news flickered across the massive television in his top-floor office. The liquid burned warmly down his throat, his gaze shifting to the leather-bound dossier on the marble table behind him. A name gleamed in silver on its cover:

Rachael Beaumont.

The daughter.

He had studied her file the way he studied acquisitions — methodically, coldly. Twenty-four years old. Black French. Once a pampered heiress, now stripped of luxury after her father’s reckless investments bankrupted the Beaumont fortune. University of Paris graduate, Art History major. Now a gallery assistant, barely surviving on a modest income in Montmartre.

Rachael Beaumont. Loud. Carefree. Reckless with laughter, bold in opinions. Everything Adrien despised.

She was the vulnerability he needed.

He placed the glass down, precise and deliberate. Revenge was not destruction alone; it was artistry. He would weave himself into her life slowly, invisibly, until the Beaumont name collapsed under his hand.

A knock at the door broke his thoughts.

“Come in,” Adrien said.

Etienne Durand, his right-hand man, stepped inside. Trusted and loyal, Etienne’s counsel often tempered Adrien’s darker impulses. He was more of a friend.

“The stakeholders are in the meeting room,” Etienne reported. “Waiting for you.”

Adrien checked his Patek Philippe before rising from his chair. He followed Etienne out, leaving his office thrumming with the weight of his authority.

Paris smelled of rain that morning. The streets of Montmartre shimmered, slick with reflections of pastel buildings and hurried tourists clutching umbrellas.

In a cramped studio apartment at the top of a weathered gray complex, Rachael Beaumont stood before a cracked mirror, tugging at her edges. She bent to fasten her heels, her features a haunting echo of her late father.

Her apartment reflected her spirit — a beautiful chaos. Second-hand art books piled against one wall, a cluttered desk drowning in sketches and sticky notes, an easel holding an unfinished painting of Paris rooftops at dawn. Clothes draped over chairs. Coffee mugs doubling as pen holders. Messy, vibrant, alive.

Rachael Beaumont — twenty-four, a Black Frenchwoman with more dreams than francs. Careless, chaotic, but burning with ambition. One day she would own her own gallery.

Her best friend and roommate, Marianne Lefèvre, strode in, holding a slice of burnt bread.

“You’ve burnt the bread again,” Marianne sighed, dropping it into the trash.

She glanced at Rachael’s phone on the coffee table. “Don’t tell me you’re still reading Philippe’s old texts.”

“Marianne…” Rachael groaned.

“Move on. He has.”

Rachael bristled, fumbling with her braids. “How do you know?”

“Because his new girlfriend is all over I*******m.” Marianne applied lipstick with the finality of a judge.

“We’re both going to be late for work,” Rachael muttered, dodging the jab.

They parted at the street corner. “See you later!” Rachael called.

At the bus stop, her phone buzzed. Jules. Her older brother. She rolled her eyes but answered.

“Good morning, big brother.”

“You sound tired,” Jules said sharply. “Overslept again?”

“I didn’t oversleep,” she protested, settling onto a bench. “Let’s just say… I had a creative morning.”

“Creative mornings don’t pay rent. And they won’t rebuild the Beaumont name either.”

There it was — legacy. Jules wore it like armor. For Rachael, it was a chain.

“Not all of us were born for boardrooms,” she said softly. “Some of us fight in other ways.”

“By hanging paintings in someone else’s gallery?”

She bit her lip, but her voice stayed firm. “One day, I’ll have my own gallery. You’ll see.”

A pause. Then his voice softened. “Just… be careful.”

Rachael smiled. “Alright, Dad.”

That drew real laughter from him — rare and precious.

“You still have your inhaler?” he asked seriously.

“I do. And I barely get attacks these days.”

“Still. Take care of yourself.”

“I will. Say hi to Mom.”

“Call her yourself,” Jules replied, before hanging up.

Typical Jules. Caring too much.

As her bus arrived, Rachael rose, determination burning beneath her fatigue.

Back at Moreau headquarters, sunlight streamed into the meeting room. Adrien sat at the head of the table, commanding attention. The meeting was nearly over.

“Are we settled?” he asked smoothly.

The stakeholders nodded.

“I’ll be in Paris before midnight,” Adrien added.

One man spoke cautiously. “And the donation we discussed last week?”

“Ah, yes.” Adrien adjusted his navy suit. “A generous donation to the Deschamps Gallery in Paris.”

Polite applause followed.

“You’ve always loved art,” one noted.

“It’ll make good news,” another added.

Adrien’s lips curved faintly. This was no charity. This was strategy. A flawless entry point into Rachael Beaumont’s world.