The Beaumont Revenge

CHAPTER 4

The apartment still smelled faintly of croissants from that morning, though Rachael hadn’t touched hers. She lounged on the couch in a loose shirt and shorts, flipping through a magazine she wasn’t actually reading. Across from her, Marianne perched on the armrest, nursing a glass of wine and studying her best friend with open suspicion.

Rachael tried to stay casual, but the way her fingers tapped against the magazine gave her away.

“Out with it,” Marianne said, narrowing her eyes. “You’ve been twitchy since last night. And don’t give me that ‘I’m fine’ nonsense. I know the signs.”

“I am fine,” Rachael muttered.

Marianne leaned closer. “You’re lying. Spill it.”

Rachael hesitated. “If I tell you, you promise not to scream?”

“Absolutely not,” Marianne said cheerfully. “Now talk.”

With a groan, Rachael tossed the magazine aside. “Fine. I… I ran into him again. Adrien Moreau.”

Marianne nearly dropped her glass. “What?!”

“See? I told you not to scream!”

“That wasn’t a scream. That was—okay, maybe a little scream. But, Rach!” Marianne smacked her arm. “What do you mean you ran into him? Like on the street? Or did he appear in your wardrobe like some billionaire version of Narnia?”

Rachael rolled her eyes. “Neither. He… reserved the entire café yesterday. Just to drink terrible coffee and wait for me.”

Marianne’s jaw dropped. “Reserved. An entire café. For you?”

“For himself,” Rachael corrected quickly. “I just happened to walk in.”

“Oh, don’t you dare downplay this!” Marianne said, practically bouncing on the couch. “Rach, he planned it. He wanted you there.”

Rachael folded her arms. “Or he’s just used to getting his way and thought it would be amusing.”

Marianne tilted her head. “And what did you think?”

Rachael hesitated, remembering the way his words had sliced through her composure. Normalcy is overrated. His eyes, sharp as storms.

“…I think he’s trouble,” she admitted softly.

“Delicious, billionaire-shaped trouble,” Marianne corrected. “God, Rach, if I were you—”

“Good thing you’re not,” Rachael cut in, reaching for a cushion to throw at her.

The door slammed open and Jules Beaumont strode in, tall, broad-shouldered, and every inch the exasperated older brother. His navy scarf was wrapped around his neck in perfect Parisian elegance, but the effect was ruined by the scowl plastered on his face.

“Rach, this place looks like a crime scene,” he barked, kicking aside a pile of sketchbooks on the floor. “Do you even know what a vacuum is?”

“Bonjour to you too,” Rachael muttered, crossing her arms.

“Don’t mind him,” Marianne said breezily. “He’s just jealous Adrien Moreau doesn’t want his number.”

Jules froze mid-step, his head snapping toward his sister. “Excuse me—what did you just say?”

Rachael groaned. “Nothing. Marianne’s exaggerating.”

“She met Adrien,” Marianne supplied helpfully. “Coffee date. Reserved café. Swoony eye contact. Very intense.”

“Marianne!”

But Jules’s scowl deepened, if that was even possible. “You’re telling me you were seen with Adrien Moreau? The same man who’s splashed across every finance magazine in Europe? Rachael, do you have a death wish?”

“It wasn’t like that,” she protested. “It was just…coffee.”

“Rich men don’t do ‘just coffee.’” Jules jabbed a finger at her. “Especially not men like him. You stay away from him, do you hear me?”

“Oh, relax,” Marianne cut in. “What’s the worst that can happen? He buys her an island? God forbid.”

Jules ignored her. His voice softened but carried weight. “You don’t understand, Rach. Men like him, powerful men... they don’t play games you can win.”

Something in his tone pricked her curiosity. But before she could press, Marianne, ever the chaos engine, changed the subject.

“Speaking of powerful men, have you two heard about the upcoming ball? The one for the elites in Paris? Apparently, it’s the event of the season.”

Rachael flopped onto the couch beside her friend, groaning. “Don’t remind me. Those things are just overpriced costume dramas.”

Marianne clasped her hands dramatically. “And yet, imagine you in a silk gown, twirling under chandeliers, locking eyes with Adrien across the ballroom…”

“Stop right there,” Rachael warned.

But Jules had gone still. “You’re not seriously thinking of going, are you?”

“Of course not!” Rachael shot back. Then, softer: “Though…it would be nice, wouldn’t it? To walk into a room like that, to belong there. Sometimes I wish I was rich.”

The silence that followed was heavy.

Jules finally said, almost bitterly, “We were.”

Rachael blinked. “What?”

He looked away, jaw tightening. “You were too young. You don’t remember how it was before Father’s…losses.”

Her heart gave a curious twist. “You still haven’t told me how Dad lost everything. I was a kid, Jules. I deserve to know.”

But, as always, Jules sidestepped. “It doesn’t matter anymore. What matters is surviving now, not digging up ghosts.”

“Convenient,” she muttered, frustration burning.

Meanwhile, Paris glittered. The grand hall of the Palais Garnier blazed with chandeliers, their light scattering across marble floors and champagne glasses. The Annual Charity Ball was a frenzy of wealth and whispers.

Cameras flashed as Adrien Moreau stepped onto the red carpet. Navy suit, polished shoes, every inch of him the untouchable billionaire. Paparazzi surged forward, shouting over one another.

“Mr. Moreau! Why did you donate so much to the Laurent Gallery?”

“Was it connected to the young woman spotted with you yesterday?”

“Is she your new lover?”

Adrien didn’t flinch. His lips curved into the faintest smirk. “The gallery deserved recognition,” he said smoothly.

“And the girl?” someone pressed.

Adrien’s gaze cut through the crowd, cool and lethal. “Curiosity is the enemy of truth.” He stepped forward, bodyguards pushing the crowd back, leaving reporters buzzing with speculation.

Inside, the noise dimmed, replaced by the swell of violins. Adrien’s expression remained unreadable, though a flicker of satisfaction lingered at the corner of his mouth.

Adrien had been at the gala for over an hour, the same glass of champagne in his hand, the same carefully measured smile plastered on his face. The ballroom glittered with chandeliers and polished marble, but it all felt hollow. He forced laughter when industrial magnates recited tedious anecdotes, nodded politely as heiresses fluttered their lashes, and feigned interest in conversations that circled endlessly around mergers, fortunes, and legacies.

He was bored. Bored, but patient.

And then he felt it, eyes on him. A stare, steady and deliberate.

Slowly, Adrien glanced across the room.

Sofia Romano. His ex Italian girlfriend.

She stood framed in the golden glow of the chandeliers, crimson silk flowing around her figure, her lips curved in a knowing smile. Her gaze locked on his, unflinching.

Adrien didn’t say a word. He didn’t even acknowledge her with the barest tilt of his head. Instead, he set down his glass, turned, and walked—calm, steady, toward one of the side corridors.

He knew she would follow.

Inside the smaller, dimly lit salon, silence clung to the air. A single lamp burned low, casting shadows against the walls. Adrien stood by the window, hands clasped loosely behind his back, the picture of composure.

Soft footsteps echoed behind him. Then, her voice, low and familiar.

“Adrien.”

He didn’t turn. “Sofia.”

“It’s been too long,” she murmured.

“Not long enough.”

She laughed, rich and teasing, as though his ice only fueled her fire. “Still so cold. But once, you weren’t.”

“You wanted my wealth,” Adrien said flatly, finally turning to face her. His gaze was cool, his voice controlled.

“And you wanted my charm,” she replied without shame, her lips curving. “We both got what we wanted.”

She stepped closer, every movement deliberate, her hand brushing the fine fabric of his suit. “Perhaps,” she whispered, “we could want more.”

Adrien’s jaw tightened. He never loved her—never even trusted her. But she was captivating in the way danger always was.

For a moment, he allowed the closeness, the weight of her gaze. And then she leaned in, brushing her lips against his, a challenge, a test.

Adrien met her kiss briefly, measured, restrained before pulling away.

Her breath came fast, eyes glittering with triumph, until she saw the distance in his face. He unbuckled his Rolex with careful precision. Then, with a motion both intimate and dismissive, he placed it gently into her hand.

His voice was calm, final.

“Thanks for the interruption. But my guests are waiting for me.”

And with that, he stepped back, leaving Sofia standing there, breathless and stunned, clutching the watch that wasn’t a gift but a dismissal.

At home, after a long day, Rachael sat at her cluttered desk. She pulled open her drawer, staring at the sleek black business card Adrien had given her. Silver edges, bold lettering.

Her fingers traced it absently. Should she go? What would it mean if she did? She didn’t want to look desperate. She didn’t want to be another girl falling into his orbit. With a huff, she shoved it back into the drawer and turned to her work, scribbling notes furiously, drowning herself in schedules and paperwork.

Her phone buzzed.

A text from her mother.

Call me.

Rachael froze, stomach twisting. Because whenever her mother texted like that, it never meant anything good.