Eva Lorne made an entrance like it was war.
Cigarette between her fingers, stilettos like blades, she walked into Élan Mode's glass tower with the kind of confidence that made men stutter and women stare. She didn't look like she belonged in the boardroom, but then again, that was the point. Eva never belonged. She conquered.
Her black power suit clung like sin, tailored within an inch of legality. Hair pulled into a sleek ponytail, eyes lined sharp enough to cut through NDAs and egos alike, she sauntered past reception with the sway of someone who owned the world, or at least knew how to get it at half price.
"Miss Laurent is in a meeting," the assistant tried to stammer.
Eva didn't stop walking. "Then she'll just have to multitask. Move."
She pushed open the boardroom door without knocking.
Grace Laurent looked up from her seat at the head of the table, a slow smile curving her lips. "Eva. To what do I owe the pleasure?"
"Just needed to see if the empire's still yours," Eva purred, taking a seat without invitation. "Judging by the testosterone in here, I'd say yes."
The men around the table blinked, confused, trying to gauge if they were insulted. Grace let them sweat.
"This is Eva Lorne," she said coolly. "She'll be handling our legal mergers moving forward."
Eva smiled, all teeth. "And handling is what I do best."
The meeting ended quickly after that. Men excused themselves, some faster than others. Eva propped her Louboutin heels up on the table and lit her cigarette again.
"You called?" she asked.
Grace leaned back, sipping her espresso. "He's here."
Eva arched a brow. "The actor?"
Grace gave a single nod.
"Well, shit." Eva blew smoke into the air. "Took him long enough."
Silas Vale sat in his Riverton apartment, eyes flicking across his laptop screen. The glow of the monitor lit his face like a sinner praying to false gods.
Grace Laurent.
He repeated her name like a mantra. Like it had been etched into him.
CEO of Élan Mode. Ashford born. Elite lineage. Father died in a car accident. Mother took over the empire next, kept it safe from the wolves in the family, and never remarried. Studied fashion business in Paris. Single. Never married. No public relationships.
Everything about her life was perfectly documented. Flawlessly curated.
Too flawless.
He had paid good money to dig deeper. Private investigators. Legal contacts. Old university networks. And still, all paths led to the same controlled story.
No lovers. No scandals. No drama. Like she'd been dipped in ice and carved into divinity.
But no one is that clean.
He knew it in his gut. In the same way, he knew the feel of a script written to deceive.
He zoomed in on a photo of her taken at the gala. Her hand on that man's arm. Her smile, barely touching her eyes.
Who the hell was she really?
And why did he feel like she already knew him?
He stared at the screen for hours. Scrolling. Clicking. Searching.
But all he found was all it was.