The Beaumont Revenge

CHAPTER 3

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, hitting her forehead against the table hard enough to rattle her spoon. “Don’t. Just don’t.”

Marianne’s grin widened, feline and merciless. “I’m just saying, you don’t get pointed at by France’s most eligible billionaire every day. Some women would sell their souls for that kind of attention.”

Rachael lifted her head just enough to glare, though the effect was somewhat spoiled by the sleep still clinging to her eyes. “He wasn’t interested in me. He was amused. There’s a difference.”

“Amused,” Marianne repeated with theatrical solemnity, as if committing the word to scripture. “That’s what we’re calling it now?”

“Yes.” Rachael stabbed her spoon into the coffee like it was a dagger. “He’s another arrogant, rich man who’s used to people tripping over themselves to impress him. He probably picked me because I looked the least likely to drool in his Italian leather shoes.”

Marianne leaned forward, elbows on the table, eyes gleaming. “And yet…” She waggled a butter-smeared finger. “Here you are, replaying every word in your head.”

“I am not!”

But she was. Damn it, she was. That sharp, unexpected insight about Fracture. The way he’d said destruction was necessary for creation—too casually for a man who didn’t mean it. His voice had lingered, low and deliberate, as if he knew more about ruin than he was admitting. And worse, he’d listened. Really listened.

When she’d passed by the gallery office before leaving last night, she’d overheard Laurent on the phone, flushed with triumph. Adrien Moreau had made a substantial donation to the gallery, accompanied by a note.

To the young woman who understands storms. Thank you for the tour.

She’d nearly dropped her bag on the floor.

Now, sipping her coffee, she muttered under her breath, “He actually remembered what I said.”

Marianne’s brows shot up, a slow smile spreading. “What’s this? A thank-you note? A donation? Oh, Rach, he’s wooing you.”

“He is not!”

Marianne leaned back in her chair, folding her arms with maddening satisfaction. “You keep telling yourself that. I, for one, can’t wait to see how this plays out.”

The morning sun glinted off the floor-to-ceiling windows of Adrien’s Paris office, painting the walls in molten gold. Beyond them, the Seine moved like liquid steel, slow and inevitable. The city below thrummed with life, but inside his private domain, silence reigned.

Adrien stood at the window, jacket discarded, sleeves rolled back, every inch of him composed elegance. A folder lay open on his desk—Rachael Beaumont’s personnel file, acquired discreetly, efficiently.

Art history graduate. Modest apartment in the 7th arrondissement. Family name that once carried weight but had since faded into obscurity. Brother, Jules. Father deceased. Mother alive.

Adrien’s jaw tightened, though his face betrayed nothing. Beaumont. The name was a thorn buried deep, an echo of debts left unpaid.

Etienne’s voice broke the stillness.

“You’re reading too much into her.” He leaned against the polished edge of the desk, arms folded, expression caught between concern and exasperation. “She’s not like the others. She’ll complicate things.”

Adrien’s mouth curved faintly, though his gaze remained on the river. “Good.”

Etienne frowned. “You’re supposed to dismantle the Beaumont legacy, not get distracted by a woman with sharp eyes and a sharper tongue.”

Adrien turned at that, his expression as controlled as always, but his eyes carried a flicker of something darker, sharper. “The more she doesn’t see me coming, the sweeter the fall.”

Etienne shook his head, muttering something that sounded suspiciously like madman. But Adrien had already closed the file with deliberate calm. He allowed himself, privately, one admission: he had underestimated her.

Most women smiled, simpered, and calculated their angles around him. Rachael Beaumont had rolled her eyes. She had thrown his arrogance back at him without hesitation.

Intriguing. Dangerous, perhaps, but worth the risk.

“Arrange for the painting,” he said, his tone smooth and absolute. “And find out where she takes her morning coffee.”

Etienne’s sigh was long-suffering, but he obeyed.

Later that day, Rachael balanced her phone between shoulder and ear as she flipped through a stack of exhibition schedules. The gallery’s fluorescent lights buzzed faintly above her, and her desk was buried beneath notes, catalogs, and sticky reminders that multiplied like weeds.

“Jules, I don’t have time for this right now,” she sighed, scanning a column of dates.

Her brother’s voice crackled down the line, sharp with old frustration. “You never make time for it. You keep burying yourself in that gallery. Mother’s been fretting lately.”

Rachael pinched the bridge of her nose. “About what?”

“You're single.”

She stopped in her tracks.

“Jules, you’re single too.”

“I know,” he said. “I just don’t know why Mother’s bothered.”

“Lemme guess, her friend’s son is single and successful?”

“She made mention of a Lawrence.”

Rachael let out a long groan.

“Listen,” he continued, “I don’t want to be the middle man here.”

“You’re not.”

“Then call her.”Jules’ frustration crackled through the phone.

“You know how our conversations end up.”

“Sis, I’ve got to go. My break is nearly over.”

“Bye then.” With that she hung up.

Her grip tightened on the phone. Her mom was fond of pushing her towards successful suitors. She hated it. Her mom claimed she had better taste than Rachael, and knew good men when she saw them. Maybe her mom pitied her because of the way Phillipe broke up with her.

She had her life. Her career. Her independence. And none of it had anything to do with Phillipe. At least, that’s what she told herself.

The bell above the café door jingled as Rachael stepped inside, grateful for the rush of warm air and the smell of roasted beans and fresh pastries. This was her sanctuary—a corner café near the gallery where the barista knew her order by heart and no one cared about eligible bachelors and old glory.

She noticed the café was empty. And that was unusual. The café was known to be the best in town and so it attracted a lot of customers.

She looked around and saw a man at the end of the room. He had shades on, wore a spotless white shirt, navy blue suit pants and white sneakers. She then looked outside and saw two men, unmistakable bodyguards. Those were Adrien’s bodyguards.

What is he doing here? she thought.

He took off his shades and dropped them on the table. “Ah! We meet again.”

“What are you doing here?” she asked, genuinely surprised.

“Having coffee, obviously,” he said, taking a sip from the ceramic teacup.

Tastes bad, he cursed inwardly.

“I know,” she said, still standing. “What are you doing in a local coffee shop? Aren’t you supposed to be in a high-class restaurant?”

“I like mingling with regular people.”

Rachael looked around. “There’s no one here except for us and the workers.”

“That’s because I reserved this place.”

“The whole place?” she asked, trying not to look impressed.

“Yes.” He took another sip, made a face, and set the cup down. “Please join me.”

“I’d rather not.”

“I insist.”

Rachael reluctantly walked over to the table. As she sat down, she recklessly dropped her cheap-looking handbag on the table.

Adrien beckoned the waiter.

“The usual,” she said to the waiter with a brief smile.

The waiter nodded, lingering a moment too long—almost protective, almost wary of Adrien—before retreating. Adrien noticed. His lips curved. “So you’re a regular here. Interesting. I like when people form attachments. It makes them… predictable.”

“That’s not what this is,” she countered, wrapping her fingers around her cup when it arrived. “It’s not about attachment. It’s about routine. Normalcy.”

“Normalcy is overrated.” He leaned back, eyes fixed on her. “Do you know what happens when you stay too long in normalcy?”

She frowned. “What?”

“You stop seeing the storm until it’s already at your door.”

The words unsettled her, though she refused to show it. Instead, she sipped her coffee and looked away, pretending his gaze wasn’t unraveling her composure thread by thread.

“It’s been a pleasure speaking with you, Rachael,” he said at last, rising from his seat with effortless grace.

Rachael forced a smile, though her pulse betrayed her calm.

He beckoned one of his bodyguards, who stepped inside. The man reached into his suit jacket and produced a sleek, black business card edged in silver.

Luxurious, she was impressed.

Adrien read her look before it quickly faded away.

Progress, he smirked.

“That’s the address of my office in Paris,” he said. “You are more than welcome whenever you want to talk about art.”

With that, he took his leave.

Rachael just kept staring at the card, recalling all that happened.

Maybe Marianne is right, she thought.