Guérir Le Chaos

Chapter One: The Harmony of Control

Clakk. Clakk. Clakk.

The sharp, deliberate rhythm echoed across the marble floors like a declaration of war.

Each step I took was measured, precise—unapologetically loud.

My 100mm stiletto heels struck the polished surface with authority, the sound carrying through the grand lobby like a metronome dictating everyone’s attention.

They always listened.

They always looked.

And I always hated it.

The heels—custom-made from Christian Louboutin’s Krystal Du Désert sandals collection—glittered under the chandeliers, Swarovski crystals catching every flicker of light like shards of ice.

Silk-satin ankle ties wrapped around my skin like promises I never intended to keep.

Nine in the morning, and I was already exhausted with existence.

Still, I walked.

Head high.

Spine straight.

Expression carved from cold marble.

Confidence wasn’t something I felt.

It was something I wore.

Along with my Valentino Rosso off-shoulder ruffle dress—structured yet fluid, 65% virgin wool and 35% silk hugging my body like a second skin—and my Hermès Mosaïque au 24-21 bag in Rouge H, resting effortlessly on my arm. My Dior Society 1 sunglasses shielded my eyes, pale gold frames glinting like quiet threats.

Perfection.

Manufactured.

Weaponized.

“Putain!” I muttered under my breath.

People were staring again.

Of course they were.

Their eyes followed me like I was a spectacle—something to admire, something to envy, something to judge.

“What's the problem, b***h?” I whispered to myself, irritation creeping into my voice.

Was this the first time they’d seen a person?

Or was it just me?

It was always me.

The weight of their attention pressed against my skin, suffocating, invasive.

I hated it.

God, I f*****g hated it.

“Ma’demoiselle, are you alright? You seem bothered.”

Faust.

Always Faust.

His voice was calm, refined, perfectly measured—like everything else in my life that I didn’t choose.

“Je vais bien. Pas besoin de s’inquiéter, Faust,” I replied smoothly, not even slowing my pace.

I’m fine. No need to worry.

A lie so practiced it felt like truth.

Inside, something twisted violently.

Shit.

I needed to f*****g calm down.

I closed my eyes briefly as I walked, inhaling deeply, forcing control back into my veins. The anger simmered just beneath the surface, threatening to erupt at any second.

“Faust,” I said quietly, my voice dropping into something colder. “I lost my appetite. I feel bored here.”

I stopped walking.

The silence around us thickened.

“Take me to Contessa Victorina’s private firing range. I need to calm myself down now.”

There it was.

The truth.

Violence was always more honest than emotions.

“As you wish, Ma’demoiselle.”

He bowed his head slightly.

And just like that—

I felt my irritation spike again.

“f**k,” I muttered under my breath.

Even obedience annoyed me.

—

I barely registered the transition from marble floors to the open air outside the mall.

The world blurred when my temper rose.

All I knew was that the Lamborghini Aventador—2020 model, obsidian black with blood-red interior—was already waiting in front of me like a loyal beast.

Of course it was.

Everything in my life arrived before I even asked.

The valet handed the keys to Faust with both hands, eyes lowered.

No one dared look at me directly now.

Funny.

Inside, they stared.

Outside, they feared.

Before I stepped into the car, Faust turned to the guards stationed around the perimeter, issuing quiet commands.

Subtle.

Efficient.

Predictable.

“You don’t have to f*****g do that, Faust,” I snapped, my patience thinning. “How many times do I have to tell you? When I go to the firing range, I don’t need those goddamn fools following me.”

His expression didn’t change.

It never did.

“But the Grand Maître ordered us to follow you, Ma’demoiselle,” he replied calmly. “We cannot disobey him.”

There it was.

The leash.

“You know what he can do if we fail.”

And just like that—

I shut up.

Because I knew.

God, I knew.

The old man didn’t give freedom.

He gave illusions of it.

I slid into the car without another word, the leather seats embracing me like a prison disguised as luxury.

Faust took the driver’s seat.

Of course he did.

He always did.

And we drove.

—

The city blurred past us in streaks of glass and steel, but my mind wasn’t there.

It was somewhere darker.

Somewhere louder.

By the time we arrived at the private firing range, the anger inside me had sharpened into something dangerous.

Good.

I needed that.

The facility stood isolated, hidden behind high walls and discretion—exactly how I liked it.

High-class. Private. Untouchable.

Just like me.

I stepped inside.

And immediately—

I saw him.

Conrad Dubois.

My cousin.

A gun instructor.

and also a professional i***t.

He stood near the reception desk, leaning casually, flashing that stupid charming smile at a new receptionist who looked like she was about to melt into the floor.

Flirting.

Of course he was flirting.

“f**k,” I muttered.

My irritation spiked again.

They looked ridiculous.

Pathetic.

“Arse!” I called out sharply.

Nothing.

He didn’t even turn.

My eyebrow twitched.

That was mistake number one.

A gun assistant approached me carefully, carrying a velvet tray—dark royal blue, pristine, deliberate.

On it rested my babies.

My lips curved into a slow, dangerous smirk.

White and black Knights 1911 A1 Autos.

Ares.

Eros.

Elegant.

Deadly.

Mine.

Without warning, I grabbed them, c****d one smoothly—

And aimed it directly at Conrad’s head.

That got his attention.

“What the hell, Rox?! Are you planning to kill me?!” he shouted, freezing mid-laugh, hands slowly rising.

Finally.

Recognition.

“Arse,” I said coldly. “I called you once. You didn’t listen. So I greeted you with Ares.”

I tilted my head slightly.

“See? You noticed me quickly.”

His face tightened.

“Okay, okay! I noticed you! Now can you please put that motherfucker down and talk like a normal human being?”

Normal.

That word almost made me laugh.

Instead, I lowered the gun slightly—but not enough to make him comfortable.

“Assist me to my private range,” I ordered. “And inform the Countess that I’m here.”

I gestured lazily with the gun.

“And bring them with you. They’ll calm their mother later.”

He opened his mouth to argue.

Bad idea.

“I’ll change first,” I cut him off sharply. “Wait for me there.”

I turned away without waiting for a response.

“And Conrad?”

He stiffened.

“That’s an order.”

Pause.

“Don’t try to mess with me.”

A faint smile curved my lips.

“You know what I’m capable of.”

“Ciao.”

—

The dressing room was silent.

Perfect.

I stripped out of my Valentino dress without hesitation, tossing it aside like it meant nothing.

Because it didn’t.

Clothes were armor.

And right now—

I needed different weapons.

I changed into a fitted tactical outfit—sleek, flexible, built for movement and precision. My hands moved automatically as I geared up.

Vest.

Gloves.

Ear muffs.

Glasses.

Holsters.

Each piece clicked into place like a ritual.

Like preparation for war.

Because that’s what this was.

Not practice.

Not sport.

War against everything I couldn’t control.

When I stepped into the range again, Conrad was already there, arms crossed, watching me carefully.

“So,” he started, trying to sound casual. “Bad trip again, huh? What’s got you so pissed this time, Roxy?”

His smirk returned.

“And pointing a gun at me in front of a beautiful woman? You embarrassed your very handsome cousin.”

“Fils de pute.”

His smile faltered.

“Conrad,” I said slowly, dangerously. “If I were you, I’d shut my f*****g mouth.”

The air shifted.

“You’re making my blood boil more.”

I pointed toward the targets.

“I’m so pissed right now I might just put you there and pull the trigger.”

Silence.

“Just to f*****g kill you.”

He swallowed.

Good.

“Cous, I was joking,” he muttered quickly. “Relax. You’re going to get wrinkles.”

Wrong move.

“You’re too beautiful for that.”

I stared at him.

Unblinking.

Cold.

“Just… enter my code,” I said flatly.

He obeyed instantly.

Smart boy.

—

The system activated.

Targets slid into position.

Mechanical precision.

Perfect alignment.

I picked up Ares.

Familiar weight.

Comforting.

Steady.

I raised the gun.

Exhaled.

And fired.

Bang.

The first shot shattered the silence.

Then another.

And another.

Each bullet tore through the targets like they were nothing.

Like everything was nothing.

The recoil grounded me.

The sound cleared my head.

The destruction—

Calmed me.

Because here, in this controlled chaos—

I had power.

I had control.

Something my life refused to give me anywhere else.

I fired again.

And again.

Until the anger began to bleed out of me.

Until the noise inside my head finally quieted.

Until I could breathe.

—

My name is Roxanne Moreau.

Daughter of Russell Moreau—the world’s most powerful business magnate.

And Annika Lebedev—the genius behind La Moda.

I was born into perfection.

Raised in control.

Shaped into something untouchable.

And trapped in a life I never chose.

I have everything.

Power.

Wealth.

Influence.

Fear.

And yet—

I f*****g hate my life.