HIS RUTHLESS OBSESSION

PROLOGUE The Royal Courts of Justice — London The first thing Achenyo Idu noticed about him was that he did not blink. Not when she dismantled his company’s patent defense. Not when the judge leaned forward, intrigued. Not when the courtroom shifted — subtle, collective — toward her side of the argument. Men like him usually reacted. They frowned. They whispered to their counsel. They projected irritation. He did none of those things. He simply watched. Lucien Moreau sat with his hands folded loosely over a charcoal suit tailored to perfection, expression neutral, posture relaxed, as though he were observing a lecture rather than a legal execution. Because that was what this was. An execution. Achenyo’s voice carried cleanly across the courtroom, precise and unhurried. “Your Honour, Moreau Biotech’s acquisition of HelixGene’s prototype was not only unlawful — it was strategically timed to cripple a competitor weeks before clinical trials.” A ripple moved through the gallery. She did not look at him when she said it. That would have been indulgent. Instead, she held the judge’s gaze. Controlled. Measured. Ruthless. She had built this case for eleven months. Late nights. Encrypted files. Corporate intimidation attempts. Anonymous threats. She had ignored them all. Across the room, Lucien tilted his head slightly. Interested. As though she had finally said something worth hearing. Achenyo finished her argument with surgical precision. When she returned to her seat, the silence in the courtroom felt heavy — anticipatory. The judge adjourned. And for the first time, Lucien Moreau moved. He stood. Unhurried. Power radiated from him in the way it only does from men who are accustomed to owning rooms before they enter them. He did not approach her immediately. He waited. Until the crowd thinned. Until her colleagues were distracted. Until she was momentarily alone. Then he crossed the polished marble floor. She sensed him before she saw him. There was a shift in temperature. In air. In pressure. “Achenyo Idu,” He said softly, as though testing the syllables. His accent was French-inflected, smoothed by years in London. She turned. Up close, he was even more composed than she expected. No irritation. No hostility. Just calculation. “You’re very confident,” he continued. Her expression did not change. “I’m very correct.” For the first time, something almost like amusement flickered in his eyes. Not warmth. Recognition. “You think this ends in a courtroom,” he said quietly. Achenyo met his gaze without hesitation. “It always does.” Lucien’s gaze held hers for a fraction too long. And in that moment — sharp and invisible — something shifted. Not attraction. Not yet. Assessment. He leaned slightly closer, voice dropping just enough to feel intentional. “You’re going to be very interesting to dismantle.” Then he stepped back. Smooth. Unbothered. Certain. And walked away. Achenyo watched him leave. She did not feel fear. She felt something far more dangerous. Curiosity.