Camille adjusted the fall of her silk blouse as the lift rose silently toward the upper levels of Laurent Tower. Her reflection stared back at her in the polished steel—composed, calm, yet beneath the surface, her mind moved with sharp precision.
Today would be different. Today, she would step into the core of Damien's empire.
And into the path of those who would see her undone.
The invitation—or summons—had come the night before.
Board briefing. 10 a.m. Attendance expected.
Expected. Not requested.
Camille had read between the lines. Damien was pushing her deeper into his world—deliberately, calculatingly. She would meet his board, his inner circle. Those loyal, those doubtful, those hostile. It would be no polite introduction. It would be a test.
She intended to pass it.
The lift opened directly onto the executive floor. Dark glass. Marble. The hush of wealth and power.
Damien's assistant awaited her, expression as unreadable as ever.
"This way, Mademoiselle Aragon."
Camille followed through a corridor lined with abstract art and discreet security cameras, her heels clicking softly on the stone.
Ahead, double doors opened into the boardroom.
A space of deliberate severity—polished mahogany, leather, and steel. Floor-to-ceiling windows revealed a sweeping view of Paris, indifferent and glittering beyond the glass.
Inside, a dozen figures gathered around the long table. Men and women of power—grey hair, sharp suits, eyes honed by decades of corporate warfare. The board of Laurent Industries.
At the head of the table, Damien stood, crisp in dark tailoring. He did not rise as she entered, but his gaze met hers—steady, unreadable.
"Camille Aragon," he said, voice carrying across the room. "My fiancée."
A ripple moved through the gathering. Some eyes narrowed. Others showed thinly veiled interest. One man—bald, lean, with a pinched expression—allowed a faint sneer to touch his mouth.
Camille moved forward, spine straight, gaze cool. She stood at Damien's side without hesitation.
He gestured to the group. "My board."
A pause.
No introductions. No pleasantries.
The gauntlet was laid.
---
What followed was no ordinary briefing.
Damien spoke first, outlining key movements—acquisitions, legal actions, restructuring of legacy operations. His voice was calm, assured, but beneath the surface Camille sensed the undercurrent: a battle being waged in the shadows of the corporation.
Certain names emerged. Renault. Dresden Group. Others tied to the old Laurent alliances.
Opposition was rising.
Then the floor opened to questions.
And the first blow came swiftly.
"Mademoiselle Aragon," the bald man—Marceau, she recalled—leaned forward, voice smooth with practiced disdain. "You come from a legal background, yes? What precisely qualifies you to... assist Monsieur Laurent in matters of corporate governance?"
A deliberate slight. The room waited.
Camille allowed the faintest smile to touch her lips.
"I was not brought here to manage governance, Monsieur Marceau," she said evenly. "Nor to soothe the discomfort of certain members of this board."
A flicker of amusement crossed Damien's eyes.
Camille continued, voice clear.
"I am here because Monsieur Laurent faces external threats that require more than corporate maneuvering. I bring legal expertise, discretion, and insight into certain... adversaries. And I am more than capable of standing at his side."
A pause. "Or against those who would undermine him."
A faint stir moved through the room. Several gazes shifted. Marceau's mouth tightened.
Damien spoke then, his tone laced with steel.
"Let us be clear. Camille's presence is not a matter for debate."
His gaze swept the table.
"Her counsel will be valued. And protected."
Another beat of silence. No one challenged him further.
For now.
---
The meeting closed after another hour—formal, tense. Camille rose beside Damien as the board began to disperse in pairs and murmured knots.
As they stepped into the corridor, he glanced at her.
"Well played."
She met his gaze. "I don't flinch."
A faint smile. "No. You do not."
They moved toward his office in silence, the charged air between them a current neither acknowledged.
Inside, the doors closed. The city sprawled beyond the vast windows.
Damien poured two glasses of whiskey—no question, no invitation. He handed one to her.
"To survival," he said softly.
Camille lifted her glass. "To control."
Their eyes met. The tension simmered—part challenge, part something else.
---
The afternoon brought no respite.
Camille spent the next hours immersed in legal briefings, dossiers on key rivals, encrypted communications outlining threats Damien had only hinted at.
Renault's name appeared again and again. Financial sabotage. Political influence. And deeper shadows—private intelligence firms, untraceable transactions.
A war was unfolding.
And Camille, willingly or not, was now part of it.
Yet beneath the flood of information, one thread remained constant in her mind.
Mateo.
Her brother's death had never been solved. Official reports were thin, incomplete. A corporate scandal buried within larger conflicts.
And the Laurent name had hovered too close to it all.
Now, as she pieced through layers of Damien's war, Camille glimpsed hints—whispers of past deals, old betrayals.
The truth was here. Somewhere.
She would find it.
---
Night fell once more.
At half past eight, another message appeared.
Dinner. Private terrace. Come prepared.
Prepared for what, the message did not say.
Camille changed swiftly—sleek black, understated, yet commanding. She arrived at the Laurent residence as requested.
Damien greeted her on the private terrace—a space walled in glass and ivy, the city lights glittering beyond. A table awaited, candles flickering against the night.
"Sit," he said quietly.
She did.
A moment passed in silence as the first course was served.
Then Damien spoke.
"There was an incident."
Camille's gaze sharpened.
"One of our transports was intercepted in Antwerp. Intel suggests Renault's hand."
"Losses?"
"Minor. This time."
He met her eyes. "But the message was clear."
Camille absorbed this. "They're escalating."
"They are."
He set his glass down, fingers drumming lightly.
"This is why your role matters," Damien said. "They will test us—test you. The board, the press, external players. You must match them."
Her voice was calm. "I intend to."
He studied her, something darker flickering beneath his gaze.
"You are more than I expected," he said softly.
Camille met his gaze, pulse quickening.
"And you are not what I assumed."
A charged silence fell between them.
Then Damien rose, stepping to her side.
He reached out—not forceful, not hesitant. Fingers brushed a stray lock of hair from her cheek.
The contact was brief.
But the air between them shifted, electric.
Neither spoke of it.
Not yet.
---
Later, as she returned to her apartment, Camille stood by her window, the lights of Paris sprawling below.
The danger was growing.
The truth was closer.
And Damien Laurent—dangerous, compelling, unreadable—was drawing her into depths she had not yet named.
But Camille Aragon had chosen this path.
And she would see it through.
To the very end.