All Chapters of The Beaumont Revenge: Chapter 1 - Chapter 5

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 hi

The morning light spilling into Rachael’s apartment was far too cheerful for her mood. She sat at the little kitchen table, chin propped in her hand, glaring into the depths of her coffee like it had personally betrayed her. The aroma was strong, rich, and slightly burnt—the way she liked it—but even caffeine couldn’t cut through the knot of irritation sitting heavy in her chest.Across from her, Marianne cheerfully demolished a croissant, far too awake for someone who’d been out late at work. She tore off flaky pieces, butter smudging her fingers, and hummed with the kind of exaggerated satisfaction that only made Rachael’s sulk deepen.“Are you still sulking?” Marianne asked at last, brushing crumbs from her shirt with infuriating nonchalance. “Because from what you told me, it looked like Monsieur Moreau was one smirk away from undressing you with his eyes.”Rachael groaned, thunking her forehead against the table hard enough to rattle her spoon. “Don’t. Just don’t.”Marianne’s gri

Saturday mornings were supposed to be sacred. At least for Rachael. They were her one-day truce from the chaos of her weekly grind, a chance to wake up late, scroll aimlessly through social media, and pretend she was an heiress whose only responsibility was deciding whether brunch would be pancakes or waffles.But that morning, her peace was ruined by the shrill ringtone of her phone. She groaned, yanked the blanket over her head, and prayed it was a wrong number. Unfortunately, the name flashing across the screen made her sit up immediately: Mom.Rachael squinted at the clock. 11:43 a.m. Too early for drama, too late to ignore. She cleared her throat, trying to sound more awake than she was.“Hello, Mom.”“Rachael!” Her mother’s voice carried the kind of urgency usually reserved for emergencies—like floods, fires, or 50% discount sales.Rachael frowned. “Is everything okay? You sound… urgent.”“Yes, everything is fine,” her mom replied, but there was a peculiar lilt in her tone, almo