Chapter 3
Adrien
T he smell of fresh ink and the crisp rustle of newspaper fills the air as I sit in the sleek, glass-walled office of Leroy Holdings’ French headquarters. Below, the heart of Paris pulses with life, blissfully unaware of the machinations unfolding high above them.
My fingers trace over the bold headlines announcing Dean Carter’s death, a man whose life had been as controversial as his sudden demise. Diane, my senior executive assistant, is engrossed in her phone, her eyes flicking over the reactions and speculations online.
“Anything interesting?” I ask.
The death of Dean Carter, a business tycoon, has sent shockwaves through the business world. The ink on today’s newspapers is still fresh, their pages filled with praises for his philanthropy and business acumen.
I can’t help but marvel at how death had polished his tainted legacy to a shine.
She shrugs. “It’s all business as usual. The shareholders of Carter Industries are in a frenzy, but that’s to be expected. Dean was the driving force behind the company for many years. Police are still investigating the car crash, but the Moroni family is good at covering their tracks. For now, everything is under control.”
“Umberto has its uses.”
Umberto is the head of the Moroni family, the largest criminal group on this continent. His connections go far and wide, and he is always willing to make a deal. Especially when it involves acquiring valuable assets or getting back at someone who has wronged him. I didn’t need to do much to stir up trouble. A few casual remarks about Carter secretly arming Moroni’s enemies were enough to get Dean dealt with by Umberto—I didn’t have to lift a finger.
I move my gaze across the newspaper page. The press may paint Carter as a saint and a hero, but I know better. Dean was a sleazy scoundrel at best, only successful when he went behind people’s backs or bribed his way into advantageous partnerships with some very shady characters.
As I’m about to put the paper down, I see a picture that captures my attention and makes me frown.
It’s a photo of Carter’s sisters going to the morgue to identify the body of their uncle. Tiffany’s older sister holds hands with the dark-haired man while Tiffany stands near another man, her eyes downcast and her body language closed off. I see the tension in her shoulders and the haunted look in her eyes. She looks like a wounded bird, fragile and ready to flee at any moment. The man next to her is dressed in a smart suit, his expression unreadable but his stance protective.
My grip on the newspaper tightens, and I ask, “What about Carters?”
Diane lifts an eyebrow. “What about them?”
“Who’s taking over Carter Industries?”
“Tiffany Carter is the only blood relative of Dean Carter, and she’s the obvious heir. But she’s young, inexperienced, and—let’s be honest—not exactly cutthroat material. The board will eat her alive unless someone steps in to guide her.”
There’s no denying the truth in Diane’s words. Tiffany is soft-hearted, too trusting, and far too na?ve for the ruthless world she’s about to inherit. She’s not built for the cutthroat politics of Carter Industries, and without Dean’s iron fist to keep the wolves at bay, they’ll tear her apart.
I look at the picture again. “Find out who’s standing next to Tiffany in the photo.”
“Do you think he’s a threat?”
The man in the photograph exudes a certain allure with his tall, lean frame and sculpted eyebrows. He looks rugged and handsome, with a thick mop of dark hair and brown eyes that are solely focused on Tiffany.
“Yes. I think that he’s a threat.”
“I’ll have Matteo to look into it right away.” Diane types something on her phone. “In the meantime, you have a conference call with Pierre Benoit in a few minutes for an update regarding your European real estate investments.”
I push the newspaper away, focusing on the upcoming conference call.
After the call, I pace the length of my office, the image of Tiffany and the unknown man seared into my mind. The protective way he stood beside her, the way her body seemed to lean ever so slightly toward him—it gnaws at me. I can’t shake the feeling that something is shifting, something I can’t control.
Diane returns with a file in hand, her expression unreadable but her eyes sharp. “I have a name for the man in the picture. He’s Lucas Bowler—an artist. He’s relatively unknown in the art world, but he’s been gaining traction recently with a few exhibitions at smaller galleries. As of now, Bowler doesn’t appear to be dangerous and has no criminal record.”
I clench my jaw, my fingers curling into fists at my sides. Lucas Bowler. The name feels like a splinter lodged under my skin, irritating and impossible to ignore.
I take the folder from her, flipping through the pages that contain Lucas’ biography and some of his notable works. All of them are bright and colorful, mostly abstract pieces that seem to burst with emotion and energy.
“Is he married?”
Diane shakes her head, her eyes narrowing. “No. From what I’ve gathered, he’s single.”
“Relationship with Tiffany Carter?”
“He’s been seen around Tiffany a few times in the past weeks, mostly at art events and gallery openings. There’s speculation that they’re close.”
My jaw tightens further.
Close.
The word feels like an accusation, though I have no right to it. Tiffany is no longer mine—if she ever was. And yet, the thought of her finding comfort in the arms of her dream guy—romantic, decent, and boring—fills me with a rage I can barely contain.
“Keep digging,” I order curtly, tossing the folder onto my desk. “I want to know everything about him—who his friends are, his financial history, his connections to the art world, and most importantly, his relationship with Tiffany.”
“Of course. I’ll have a full report on your desk by tomorrow morning.”
As she leaves the room, I turn back to the window, the city lights below blurred by the storm brewing in my mind. Tiffany is slipping through my fingers, and if I let her go now, I might never get her back. The mere thought of another man laying eyes on Tiffany, touching her, and kissing her makes my blood boil.
I’ve tried to move on from her, but she is the one thing I can’t let go of, no matter how much I’ve tried to convince myself otherwise.
I pick up my phone, scrolling through my contacts until I find the number I’m looking for. It rings twice before my late father’s personal bodyguard answers.
“Adrien,” he drawls, his tone equal parts amusement and curiosity. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“I need a favor. Something discreet.”
There’s a pause on the other end, followed by a soft chuckle. “Discreet is my specialty. What’s the job?”
I glance at the photograph still lying on my desk, Tiffany’s fragile figure and Lucas’s confident stance mocking me. “I need you to keep an eye on someone for me. An artist—Lucas Bowler. I want to know where he goes, who he talks to, and if he so much as breathes in Tiffany Carter’s direction. And make sure she is protected.”
Luis hums thoughtfully. “The Carter girl? I thought you were done with that mess.”
“I was, but it seems the mess isn’t done with me.”
Another chuckle, darker this time. “Fair enough. Consider it done.”
The line goes dead, and I exhale sharply, my grip on the phone loosening.
I shouldn’t be doing this. I should walk away, and let Tiffany find her own path, even if it leads her to someone like Lucas Bowler. But before I do that, I need to see for myself. I need to know if she’s truly moved on—if she’s found something real with him or if she’s just clinging to the first lifeline thrown her way after everything that’s happened. Tiffany has always been a dreamer, and Lucas Bowler seems like the kind of man who would feed into that, painting her a world of colors and light while ignoring the shadows that still linger around her.
One last meeting with Tiffany will help me decide. I need to see her, to look into those blue eyes and see if there’s still a flicker of what we had. If there’s even the slightest chance that she hasn’t completely let go of me, of us, then I can’t walk away. Not yet. Not ever.