Blood and Champagne

The tray in Léa Bellemont’s hands was trembling, but not from nerves. She hadn’t eaten all day too focused on keeping her crisp white shirt clean and pretending she belonged in a place like this. The Château Devereux. A literal fortress carved into the cliffs of Marseille, with more chandeliers than church and more secrets than God. Tonight, it glittered with old money and new crimes. Léa was just the help. Invisible. Disposable. Which was exactly what she needed. She moved silently through the ballroom, heels soft against marble, offering champagne flutes to women in diamonds and men with dead eyes. It was a party, technically. A fundraiser for “global innovation,” whatever that meant but everyone here knew what it really was: a gathering of the powerful. Arms dealers. CEOs. Politicians with dirty hands and hungry smiles. And the hosts? The Devereux brothers. Bastien Devereux stood on the staircase, sculpted from shadow and steel, delivering a toast in a voice that made men listen and women lean forward. Tall. Immaculate. A dark suit tailored to his sin. Léa had read about him—luxury mogul, media ghost, rumored crime lord. His brother, Cassian, leaned against the banister below, shirt half-open, tattoos peeking through. He wasn’t smiling, but he looked like he might start a fight just for the hell of it. The black sheep. The rebel. The reason half the rumors about the Devereuxs existed. Léa kept her head down. She wasn’t here for them. Just money. And maybe, just maybe, answers. Her father had vanished ten years ago during an investigation tied to this very family. No body. No justice. Just silence and a grieving girl who stopped believing in the system and dropped out of law school to chase ghosts. That chase had brought her here. “Kitchen’s that way,” a bored server muttered, jerking his thumb toward a dark hallway. “Need more champagne from the cellar.” Léa nodded, grateful for the task, and slipped out of the golden glow of the ballroom. The music faded. The laughter vanished. Cool air whispered against her neck as she descended into the belly of the estate. The cellar door creaked open. Rows of wine bottles stretched like soldiers in glass tombs. She stepped inside, blinking against the dim light, moving past shelves of rare vintages and locked cabinets. And then She saw it. A body. Face-down. A man. Blood spilling like a second shirt across the white marble floor, pooling under his chest. A slit throat. Eyes wide open in eternal shock. Léa’s breath hitched. Her tray clattered to the floor. She turned to run. But someone was already there. A figure in the shadows. “Stop,” a voice commanded. Male. Low. Deadly calm. She froze. Not out of obedience out of survival. The man stepped into the light. And Léa's stomach dropped. It was Bastien Devereux. He looked down at the body. Then up at her. Then smiled. “Well,” he said, voice smooth as silk over razors. “That complicates things.” And before she could scream, move, or think everything went black. — Léa woke to the scent of leather, smoke, and something darker metallic, almost. Her head throbbed like it had been split open and stitched back together. She blinked once, twice, the light too soft, too golden, like it didn’t belong in a place where someone had just died. Where she had seen someone die. She bolted upright. She wasn’t in the cellar. Velvet drapes covered tall windows. A fire crackled low in the marble hearth. She was lying on a velvet settee in a room that looked more like a private library than a crime scene. And across from her, leaning against a polished piano with a glass of something dark in his hand, was Bastien Devereux. His suit was perfect. His posture, impeccable. Like nothing in the world could touch him. Not death. Not panic. Not her. “You fainted,” he said casually, not even looking at her. “Which was inconvenient. But forgivable.” Léa’s heart pounded. She tried to stand. “What the hell is going on?” “You stumbled into something you shouldn’t have seen.” “I didn’t stumble. I was sent” “To the cellar, yes. A mistake. One I’ve corrected.” Léa narrowed her eyes. “Who was he?” Bastien took a sip of his drink. “Irrelevant.” “I saw him,” she snapped. “He’s dead.” “Yes. Which is why you’re here.” He finally looked at her, and the calm in his gaze made her skin crawl. “To stay quiet.” Her hands curled into fists. “You think I’m just going to keep my mouth shut?” “I think,” he said, setting the glass down, “you’re smart enough to know that shouting will only get you hurt. Or worse.” The door swung open. And in came chaos. Cassian Devereux. Messy dark hair. Black leather jacket. Jeans torn at the knee. A fresh cut above his cheekbone like he’d gotten in a fight on the way over and barely noticed. His eyes locked on Léa and for a second, something flickered there. Recognition. “Oh, hell.” His voice was a low, hoarse laugh. “It’s you.” Léa stared. “Do I... know you?” Cassian smirked, slow and sharp. “About a week ago. That bar in the Old Port. The alley behind it.” He stepped closer. “You kissed like you were trying to forget something.” Her breath caught. The man from that night. The one she’d sworn was a mistake. Just one wild moment, one distraction before she threw herself back into grief and poverty and obsession. And now he was him. Bastien’s younger brother. She stood, stumbling slightly. “I need to leave.” “No,” Bastien said coolly. “You need to stay.” Cassian arched his brow. “She saw the body?” “She saw everything,” Bastien said. “Which means she’s ours now.” Léa backed toward the door. “I’m not yours. I’m not part of this. I didn’t sign up for—” “You did sign up,” Bastien cut in, his voice colder than the room. “You came here under false pretenses. You used a fake name on your application. You lied about your background. You’ve been snooping.” “I was looking for answers,” she said, her voice cracking. “To what?” She didn’t answer. Her father’s face flashed in her mind—his smile, the warmth in his eyes before it all disappeared into silence and a closed casket that had nothing inside. Cassian stepped closer, eyes sharper now. “What’s your real name?” Léa hesitated. “Léa Bellemont.” The air shifted. Bastien’s jaw tensed. Cassian’s gaze darkened. “Bellemont?” Bastien asked, his voice low. She nodded. “You’re Julien Bellemont’s daughter.” Her throat went dry. So they did know. Cassian let out a slow whistle. “No wonder you kissed like a liar.” Bastien’s expression didn’t change, but something behind his eyes hardened. “Your father was warned. He didn’t listen.” “Did you kill him?” she asked. “No,” Bastien said simply. “But I didn’t stop it either.” The room went still. The fire cracked. Somewhere far above them, the sound of laughter and music still floated down from the ballroom. Léa swallowed her panic. “You’re not keeping me here,” she whispered. Cassian stepped closer, voice rough. “Then run, Bellemont. But you won’t get far.” And Bastien? He just smiled. “I’d rather keep you somewhere safer. Controlled. Comfortable. You’ve already made your choice by walking into our home.” “This wasn’t a choice.” “No,” he said. “But the next part will be.” Léa turned toward the door, but it opened before she could touch it. Two guards stood outside. Not in uniforms but in tailored suits, with earpieces and no expressions. Cassian leaned against the wall, watching her. Bastien picked up his drink again. “You’re staying in the east wing. Room will be ready in ten. I suggest you rest.” “And if I don’t?” His eyes glittered. “Then things get much more unpleasant. For both of us.” Léa stood frozen for a long mo ment. Then, without another word, she walked out. She didn’t cry. She didn’t scream. But inside, something dark was cracking open. And she swore she’d find the truth. Even if it killed them all.