A pale sliver of dawn barely touched the horizon when Camille finally drifted into restless sleep. It was no more than a few hours before her body stirred awake again, the heavy tension of the night still wound through her muscles. Her mind refused quiet, looping through every moment that had unfolded in the penthouse—the failed attack, the discoveries, and the devastating kiss that had left them both altered.
There had been nothing rehearsed about it. No performance. No cold strategy.
It had simply happened—a flash of truth in a world built on careful deception.
And now, the balance between them had shifted.
Camille rose and padded barefoot across the apartment's cool floors, a silk robe drawn loosely around her. The city beyond her windows was still wrapped in morning grey, the usual din of traffic hushed. Paris held its breath—as if waiting for the next move.
In the living room, the secure phone blinked softly. A new message.
From Damien.
Report at 0900. Full briefing. Come armed—with questions.
A faint smile touched her mouth. Of course. He wasted no time, nor would she. The war with Renault was deepening with every passing hour, and neither could afford hesitation.
She showered quickly, dressed with careful precision—black cigarette trousers, a soft silk blouse the shade of champagne, subtle gold at her throat. Polished yet unassuming—elegant armor. Today, there would be no performances for society, no staged appearances for the press.
Today was about truth—and survival.
By the time she arrived at Laurent Tower, the upper levels were already humming with discreet activity. Security was heavier than before—subtle, but unmistakable. Every operative moved with tight efficiency, radios low in their ears, gaze sharp.
Camille entered through the private lift. The moment the doors opened onto the executive floor, Damien's assistant greeted her with a clipped nod.
"He's in conference. They're waiting."
The use of they drew Camille's attention. Not just Damien, then.
Her pulse quickened—not with fear, but with readiness.
"Take me in."
---
The conference room was smaller than the main boardroom—designed for war rooms, not diplomacy. Its dark-paneled walls and recessed lighting lent the space a charged atmosphere, intimate and tense.
Damien stood at the head of the table, a tablet in hand, his expression cool and focused. Beside him sat three figures Camille had not yet met—two men and a woman, all sharp-eyed and dressed in clean, tactical suits. Operatives. Not corporate. Not board members. These were the shadows of Laurent's war machine—those who handled matters far from the public eye.
Damien's gaze lifted as she entered.
"Camille. Good. We're ready to begin."
Without hesitation, she moved to the empty seat he indicated—at his right hand. The placement was deliberate. A signal, to the room and to her.
Beside him. Not behind.
The briefing began at once.
One of the operatives—a lean, dark-haired man named Calvet—brought up the surveillance footage. A series of attacks on Laurent's holdings across Europe—Zurich, Antwerp, and now Milan. Financial incursions, attempted sabotage of key shipments, targeted cyberstrikes.
Renault's reach was widening.
Camille studied the data carefully.
"They're not acting alone," she observed after several minutes.
Damien glanced at her, eyes gleaming with approval.
"No," he agreed. "They've brought in outside contractors."
Another feed appeared—images of a secondary player. A private intelligence group with ties to Eastern syndicates, known for clean extractions and messier work when required.
Her stomach tightened.
"They're escalating. This isn't just pressure anymore."
"It's a hunt," Damien confirmed.
Camille's voice was low. "For both of us."
A faint tension pulsed between them, unspoken but understood.
The female operative—blonde, cool-eyed—spoke next.
"We've intercepted chatter about Camille. They're building a profile, testing vulnerabilities. Surveillance on your former firm has increased."
So they were still probing her past, looking for weak points. Camille's jaw set.
"Let them look," she said calmly. "There's nothing for them to find."
One of the men smiled faintly. "If there were, they wouldn't be reporting in."
Damien's voice cut across the table.
"She's clean. And she stays that way."
The finality in his tone left no room for argument.
The briefing continued another hour—deep layers of intelligence, strategies under review. Camille absorbed every word, her mind working at speed.
But beneath the surface, her own investigation pressed harder than ever. The file she'd uncovered—linking Renault's shadow network to the shell company that had absorbed Mateo's last project—burned in her mind.
She needed more. Hard proof. Enough to shatter the veil over her brother's death.
When the operatives finally cleared the room, Damien remained by the window, silent. Camille approached, sensing the tension in him.
"This isn't just about Renault, is it?"
His gaze met hers—grey eyes sharp, unreadable.
"No," he admitted. "There are others. Tied to the old order. Some within our own walls."
A flicker of cold realization moved through her.
"An internal leak."
He nodded once.
"They'll move soon. You'll need to be prepared."
Camille's voice was steel. "I already am."
---
That evening brought no respite.
Her encrypted channels buzzed with fragments of intelligence—encrypted whispers from old contacts in her legal network. Pieces of a deeper puzzle began to take shape.
And in the center of it—Renault, yes. But also another name, one she had not seen in years.
Julien Cazaux.
An old associate of her brother's. Once a brilliant coder and systems analyst, now vanished into the darker corners of European tech syndicates.
Cazaux had worked with Mateo in the final months before his death. The files hinted that he'd been involved in the same project—one that had drawn the attention of powerful enemies.
If anyone held the missing key, it was Cazaux.
And if he could be found... everything could change.
Camille rose swiftly, sending an encrypted query through her network. A name, a signal, anything.
The reply came within an hour—thin, but promising.
Seen in Geneva. Last month. Quiet circles. Discretion advised.
Her pulse raced.
Geneva. Close enough to reach. Dangerous, but necessary.
She hesitated only a moment before drafting a message to Damien.
Need to follow a lead. Geneva. Confidential.
The reply came moments later.
We'll go together. Be ready.
No argument. No question. Just certainty.
Camille exhaled, tension threading through her.
The hunt was on.
---
Their departure was swift and silent.
A private jet out of Le Bourget, shielded from attention, with Damien's most trusted operatives managing the security layers. By midnight, they were in the air—Paris falling away beneath them.
Camille sat in the quiet cabin, gaze turned to the darkened sky beyond. Damien sat across from her, a glass of scotch in hand, silent but watchful.
For long minutes, neither spoke.
Finally, Camille broke the silence.
"You trust me enough to bring me into this."
Damien's gaze held hers. "I trust you more than most."
A pause. Then, with quiet steel: "But this is not without risk."
"I know."
Another charged silence.
Then Damien set the glass aside, his voice lower.
"If we find Cazaux... the truth may be darker than you want."
Camille's eyes did not waver.
"Then I'll face it."
A flicker of something moved through his gaze—admiration, perhaps. Or something deeper, more dangerous.
"You're relentless," he said softly.
"So are you."
A faint smile touched his mouth.
"That's why we're here."
---
As the plane sliced through the night, Camille closed her eyes for a moment—allowing herself a breath. The journey ahead would be perilous, not just for the truths it might reveal, but for everything it was awakening between them.
The line between alliance and something more had thinned dangerously. And in the shadow of the war they fought, neither could afford that weakness.
Yet weakness it was not.
It was fire. Coiled and waiting.
And in Geneva, it would only burn hotter.