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The Viper's Table

PARIS – LAMARQUE TOWER, 18th FLOOR – HOURS BEFORE THE DINNER

The city glittered beneath the glass walls of Elena’s design headquarters — Maison Duclair, the crown jewel of her late mother’s empire. Seamstresses moved in swift precision, fabrics flowing like water, while stylists adjusted gowns for the upcoming fall collection reveal.

Elena stood at the center, arms crossed, watching as a final piece — a silk gown the color of moonlight — was lifted onto a mannequin. Finch lay at her feet, eyes half-closed, ears twitching at every sound.

Then — the alarm.

A shrill, gut-clenching wail ripped through the air.

“What the hell—?” Elena’s voice cut sharp as she spun toward the corridor. Smoke seeped in from the storage wing, black and thick, curling toward the ceiling.

“Get the samples out!” one of the assistants shouted, her voice breaking as she tried to pull a rack of dresses toward the freight elevator.

Elena grabbed a fire extinguisher from the wall, already striding into the haze. Her lungs burned, but fury burned hotter. Those storage rooms held more than fabrics — they held prototypes, sketches, months of work.

She caught sight of flames licking up the edge of a rack draped in couture. A single spark had no business spreading this fast.

Finch barked once — sharp, urgent.

Elena’s gaze snapped to the far corner of the room. The sprinkler system above wasn’t going off. Someone had shut it off.

By the time the fire brigade arrived, half the storage wing was scorched.

Lucas appeared at her side, face dark, tie loosened as he surveyed the damage. “It’s contained,” he said. “But it’s not random. Someone wanted this to happen.”

Elena wiped soot from her wrist and looked past him toward the window, where the Eiffel Tower stood serene against the Paris sky. “And I can already guess which family’s name is behind it.”

Lucas gave her a look — part warning, part agreement.

She straightened her coat, ignoring the ash still clinging to her skirt. “Get the jet ready. Valencourt is waiting — and I don’t care if they’re ready for me or not.”

Finch padded after her as she left, the fire’s heat still smoldering in her veins.

---

PARIS – LAMARQUE TOWER, LATER

The smoke had barely cleared when Elena was already back in her office, the skyline still glittering beyond the glass. She typed something into her phone, then pressed call.

“Larysa,” she said when her best friend answered. “I need you to take point at Maison Duclair. Full operations. Keep the press calm, reassure the clients, and make sure no one on staff breathes a word about sabotage. I have… other business to attend to.”

“You’re leaving now?” Larysa’s voice was incredulous. “After what just happened?”

Elena glanced toward Finch, who was sprawled under her desk, ears twitching. “Yes. Because what just happened is exactly why I can’t stay.”

---

PRIVATE JET – OVER THE CHANNEL

The hum of the engines filled the cabin. Elena sat with one leg crossed over the other, eyes closed, letting the weight of the day roll off her. Across from her, Lucas scanned his phone, his brow furrowed deeper with every swipe.

The vibration of an incoming call broke the silence. Lucas answered, listening for a long beat before his eyes met hers.

“One of the warehouses in Maulport,” he said slowly, “is gone. Fire.”

Her lashes lifted, but her voice was ice. “Tell them to lock down the others. I’m not turning back.”

“Elena—”

She cut him off. “Lucas, I will not give Mateo, Isabella, or anyone in Valencourt the satisfaction of seeing me miss this dinner. The fire can wait. This cannot.”

---

VALENCOURT ESTATE – THE DINNER HALL

Crystal chandeliers spilled golden light over the table, casting long shadows against the marble floor. Doña Marcelline sat at the head, her posture regal, fingers wrapped around a delicate wine glass.

Isabella leaned close to the matriarch, her voice syrup-sweet. “The arrangements tonight are all in honor of your taste, Doña,” she purred. “We only wish Elena could be here to see it.”

Lovette, seated across from them, nodded in agreement, though her eyes kept flicking nervously to the door.

On the far side, cousins whispered over their plates.

“She’s just like her mother,” one muttered. “Distant. Defiant.”

“Too good for her own family,” another added.

Mateo sat further down, sipping wine with a satisfied curl of his lips. Isabella mirrored the expression, their silent conversation saying what neither spoke aloud: She’s not coming.

At the head of the table, Rafael’s expression was carved from stone. The furrow between his brows had deepened with every passing minute. He didn’t speak — but his silence was thunder.

Then the doors opened.

Heels clicked against marble, steady, deliberate.

The conversations stilled. Even the servants froze.

And there she was.

Elena Vargas. Draped in a dress that shimmered like midnight, hair swept back to reveal the unyielding curve of her jaw. Finch padded beside her, collar catching the light.

“Sorry I’m late,” she said, her voice smooth as satin and twice as dangerous. “Paris traffic.”

Doña Marcelline’s face broke into a rare, genuine smile. “Ma chère,” she said warmly. “You’ve come home.”

Every other smile at the table — Mateo’s, Isabella’s — cracked under the weight of her presence.

Elena took her seat without waiting for an invitation, the crown of the table’s attention settling neatly where it belonged.

---

VALENCOURT ESTATE – DINNER TABLE

The air was thick with perfume, candle smoke, and unspoken grievances. Elena rested one elbow on the table, swirling her wine lazily as if the room wasn’t thick with people waiting for her to slip.

Lovette leaned forward, voice dripping honey.

“Cousin, I saw the Maison Duclair photos in the paper last week. Very… brave. Of course, some critics said it looked more like charity work than couture.”

The jab was precise.

Elena’s head tilted, her smile slow. “Yes, brave,” she echoed softly. “Like wearing last season’s dress to a family dinner and thinking no one noticed.”

A small gasp fluttered down the table. Lovette’s hand twitched toward her lap, brushing the hem of the exact Duclair piece Elena had referenced.

Isabella’s discomfort was instant, though she wore her polished social smile like armor.

Across the table, Mateo shifted the spotlight. His gaze slid toward the man at Elena’s side.

“You still dragging that bodyguard everywhere?” Mateo’s tone was mocking. “Funny — a Vargas with a hired shadow. A man who earns his living fetching your coffee.”

Lucas’s face was unreadable.

Elena’s smile sharpened. “You mean the man who has never been caught losing half a fortune in a Maulport gambling den? I hear the creditors there are… less forgiving than I am.”

Mateo stiffened. Isabella’s eyes narrowed.

Rafael’s deep voice cut through the hum of whispers. “Elena. I asked you to return weeks ago. Instead, I hear of fires in Paris, and meetings in Maulport you never mentioned.”

She set her wine down, gaze unflinching. “Father, I’ve always admired your ability to manage multiple fires at once. I’m merely learning from the best.”

Doña Marcelline’s laugh was soft but unmistakable. “She has her mother’s tongue.”

Rafael’s jaw hardened. “This family thrives on alliances. It’s time you forged one. You will be married. Soon.”

The table stilled.

Elena tilted her head, almost amused. “Oh? And here I thought Lovette was already doing such an admirable job stepping into my place.” She let the implication hang — that Rafael had considered her cousin a stand-in for the Vargas heir. “If she’s been such a delight to you all… why the rush for me?”

Lovette flushed crimson. Isabella’s smile didn’t reach her eyes.

Rafael’s tone cooled. “Because you are my daughter.”

Elena stroked Finch’s head idly. “Then I hope your chosen groom is ready for the honor. And the consequences.”