The after-party in the private lounge was loud, but near the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Paris, the silence between the Auclair siblings was heavy.
Claude stood with his glass of scotch, his posture relaxed, his gaze drifting lazily—and completely unconsciously—across the room to where Marceline was standing near the lounge entrance.
She was laughing softly at something a friend said, her dark hair catching the warm amber light of the room.
He didn’t notice how long he’d been staring.
Lilian did.
She stepped into his line of sight, blocking his view with an expression that bordered on pure, exasperated disbelief.
“Claude,” she said flatly.
“Stop looking at her like she hung the moon.”
Claude’s eyes slowly refocused on his sister.
He didn’t blink.
He didn’t flush.
He simply took a slow, measured sip of his drink.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Please,” Lilian scoffed, lowering her voice so the nearby investment bankers wouldn’t overhear.
“You’ve been doing it for years.
Every gala.
Every dinner.
Every board meeting where she happens to represent Maison Laurent.
You stand in a corner, look infuriatingly composed, and stare at Marceline Laurent like she’s the only person in the building.”
“She’s a major individual shareholder,” Claude replied smoothly, his tone cool and impeccably logical.
“It’s basic corporate strategy to keep an eye on volatile elements.”
“Volatile elements?” Lilian nearly choked on her drink.
“Claude, you look at her like you’re waiting for her to order your execution, and you’re fully prepared to thank her for it.
It’s pathetic.
And more importantly, everyone notices.”
Claude’s jaw tightened by a fraction of a millimeter.
“Nobody is noticing anything.”
“Vivienne notices.
Her father notices.
Our parents notice,” Lilian leaned in, her eyes dropping all traces of humor.
“And Marceline notices most of all.
She hates our family, Claude.
She believes Elliot Paget’s blood is on our hands.
This obsession of yours?
It won’t end well.
You’re playing a game where the only prize is getting your heart ripped out by a woman who wouldn’t even blink while doing it.”
Claude stared at his sister for a long, quiet moment.
The noise of the party buzzed around them, but his slate-blue eyes remained entirely unreadable.
“You’re being absurdly dramatic, Lilian,” he said quietly, setting his glass down on a passing waiter’s tray with a gentle clink.
“I’m merely observing a rival.
Nothing more.”
Lilian looked at him with profound pity.
“You really are a brilliant businessman, brother.
But you are an absolute idiot.”
Claude didn’t answer.
He simply offered her a faint, polite smile—his perfected, media-trained shield—and turned away.
He walked toward the exit, convincing himself that he was leaving because the room had grown too warm, and completely ignoring the fact that his feet were carrying him down the exact same corridor where Marceline had just walked toward her room.
The suite was silent save for the low, measured cadence of Claude’s voice as he stood near the grand glass table, a tablet in one hand and his phone pressed to his ear.
“I don’t care if the European Commission wants another quarterly audit,” Claude was saying in crisp, effortless French, his tone cool, authoritative, and utterly in control.
“Tell the legal team that if the logistics merger isn’t finalized by Thursday morning, I will personally restructure their—”
The heavy oak door of his hotel room clicked open with a sharp, violent latch.
Claude froze mid-sentence.
His slate-blue eyes snapped toward the doorway just as Marceline Laurent marched inside, leaving the door wide open behind her.
Her high heels were dangling uselessly from one hand, her dark hair was slightly tumbled over her bare shoulders, and her cheeks were flushed high with champagne.
She slammed the heavy door shut behind her with a sound like a gunshot.
“Claude, is everything alright?” his senior legal director asked through the phone speaker.
“Did someone just—”
“I will call you back,” Claude said softly, hanging up before the man could answer.
He tossed the phone onto the glass table, his expression shifting from corporate authority to sheer, bewildered focus in a fraction of a second.
Marceline didn’t wait for him to speak.
She pointed an accusing, manicured finger straight at his chest.
“Stop!” she yelled, her voice echoing off the high ceilings of the penthouse suite.
Claude blinked, standing completely still beside his desk.
“Stop what?”
“Stop looking at me!” she shouted, taking three uncoordinated, furious strides toward him.
Claude raised his hands slightly, a gesture of absolute surrender, though his mind was racing at a mile a minute.
“Marceline, I’m standing in my own hotel room.
I wasn’t looking at anyone.”
“You were!” she accused, pointing at his face as if it were a crime scene.
“You always do that!
You stand across the room, you look at me with your stupid, perfect, polite face like I’m some sort of problem you’re waiting to solve!”
Claude stared at her.
His carefully constructed wall of cool composure, built through twenty-seven years of high-society conditioning and corporate warfare, suddenly developed a massive, terrifying crack.
“Marceline,” he said, his voice dropping low, steady, and dangerously quiet as he took a single step toward her.
“You are extremely drunk.”
“I am extremely aware of that!” she snapped, marching right up into his personal space until her chest was nearly touching his.
She had to tilt her head back to glare up into his eyes, her breath smelling sweet of champagne and cold rage.
“And I hate you, Claude Auclair.
I really, really hate you.”
Marceline stood barely six inches from him, her slate-grey eyes blazing with an intoxicating blend of cold fury and pure, unadulterated champagne.
Her chest rose and fell in jagged gasps, her manicured finger still jabbed accusingly toward his sternum.
Claude stood utterly frozen.
Inside his head, twenty-seven years of rigid Auclair training—the flawless etiquette, the calculated media training, the strict emotional restraint—was currently fighting a losing battle against the absurd reality of the moment.
She was furious.
She was thoroughly intoxicated.
She was standing in his private suite in her rumpled obsidian silk, accusing him of looking at her with a “stupid, perfect, polite face.”
A treacherous, irresistible spark of amusement flared in the back of his mind.
He had to bite the inside of his cheek, exerting an absurd amount of willpower to keep his lips from twitching into a full smile.
“I hate you,” she repeated, her voice dropping into a fierce, breathless hiss.
“Everything about you is obnoxious.”
Claude let out a slow, quiet breath, his hands casually slipping into the pockets of his trousers as he leaned down just an inch, his slate-blue eyes gleaming with suppressed mischief.
“Is that so?” he asked softly, his tone dripping with smooth, infuriating calm.
“Could you elaborate?”
Marceline’s eyes narrowed into lethal slits.
“Are you taking notes, Auclair?”
“I’m simply trying to understand the charges,” Claude said, his voice smooth as silk, though his mouth twitched at the corner.
“You’ve established that you hate me.
You’ve established that I’m obnoxious.
But I feel like a proper list requires details.”
“Your stupid manners,” she snapped immediately, counting off on her fingers.
“Your stupid face.
Your stupid, perfect, golden hair.”
“A bit repetitive on the adjective, but go on.”
“Your stupid family!” she jabbed another finger toward him, her cheeks flushed high.
“The way you stand in every room like you own the floorboards!
The way you smile at every woman who breathes near you because you’re too cowardly to tell them to leave!
And most of all—” She took a sharp, breathless step closer, her chest practically brushing his shirt.
“—the way you look at me.”
Claude went entirely still.
The lingering thread of amusement in his chest suddenly vanished, replaced by a sudden, heavy heat that made his pulse spike.
“How do I look at you, Marceline?” he asked, his voice dropping an octave, low and thick in the quiet room.
“Like I’m the only person in the room,” she blurted out, her words tumbling over each other.
“Like I’m some sort of prize.
Like you’re just waiting for me to break.
It’s irritating.
It’s exhausting.
And I want you to stop.”
Claude stared down at her, his breathing going shallow as he looked at her swollen, defiant lips, her glassy eyes, and the sheer, reckless heat radiating off her skin.
“Marceline,” he whispered, his hands slowly coming out of his pockets.
“You really have no idea what you’re asking, do you?”