London woke slowly muffled, grey, and half-asleep beneath a thin veil of fog drifting over the Thames. The city was quiet in that deceptive way where every silence felt like a breath taken before something important.
Eleanor arrived at the Moreau headquarters before eight.
The building, a towering prism of glass and steel near Canary Wharf, mirrored the gloomy sky. Its sharp edges, its clean lines everything about it looked modern, relentless, and intimidating. Perfect for a family like the Moreaus, a dynasty built not on old lords and dusty names, but on cold efficiency and business bloodlines.
He entered through the private elevator.
No receptionist.
No announcements.
Isabella had already given the clearance.
The elevator hummed upward, each passing floor reflecting faint echoes of Eleanor's subtle tension. He stood with hands in his coat pockets, posture straight, expression composed, but inside tightness.
Last night's confrontation at the Vance estate still clung to him like smoke.
But today was not about them.
Today was about her.
The elevator doors opened to a wide floor of glass-walled offices and polished concrete. A quiet reception area stretched forward with soft grey couches, minimalist décor, and the cold elegance of a place built for deals that shaped industries.
At the far end, Isabella stood by the window.
Her silhouette was unmistakable.
A tailored white blouse, sleeves folded to the elbow. High-waisted black trousers. Hair pinned with clinical precision. She wasn't looking at him only out at the skyline, as if measuring the world she intended to own.
Eleanor walked closer.
She didn't turn, but her voice slid through the room like a blade drawn cleanly from its sheath.
"You're early."
"So are you."
"That wasn't a compliment."
"Neither was mine."
A hint of amusement flickered across her reflection in the glass, but only barely.
She finally turned.
Isabella Moreau's eyes were sharp obsidian with a quiet storm behind them. A woman whose beauty wasn't delicate, but deliberate. A woman sculpted for the battlefield of corporate war, not the softness of love.
She looked him over once, assessing him the way one might evaluate an unexpected weapon.
"You look tired," she said simply.
"Didn't sleep much."
"Good. Neither did I. Means we're equally irritable."
He huffed a tiny breath not a laugh, but close.
She walked past him toward the meeting table.
"We have three things to finalize before the public announcement," she said. "One, timeline. Two, boundaries. Three, the reason behind our marriage."
"We already have a reason."
"No," Isabella corrected sharply. "We have a vague placeholder. Not a reason."
He followed, hands slipping into his pockets.
"Then let's create one."
Isabella sat, crossing one leg over the other with a posture too clean to be casual.
Her gaze landed on him.
"Before that," she said, "tell me where you were last night."
Eleanor froze mid-step.
"…why does that matter?"
"Because your father called my father," she replied.
"And when the Vances start calling the Moreaus, that is rarely a coincidence."
Of course Alistair would do that.
Of course he would extend his reach into something that wasn't his.
Eleanor took his seat across from her.
"I was summoned," he said.
"By them."
"Yes."
"What did they want?"
Everything.
Control.
Compliance.
Submission disguised as family integrity.
But he answered simply:
"To warn me."
"About me," she guessed.
His eyes met hers.
"At some point, yes."
Isabella exhaled slowly, her fingers tapping the table once.
"I need to know," she said. "Exactly how entangled your father plans to be in this arrangement."
"He won't be involved."
"I don't believe that."
Her tone wasn't hostile.
Just factual.
Calculating.
"He thinks you're using me," Eleanor said.
Her brow lifted. "Am I?"
"You tell me."
Isabella didn't look away.
"If I intend to use you," she said, "you will know it. I don't manipulate in shadows, Eleanor. I negotiate on the table."
Direct.
Blunt.
Almost refreshing after growing up around serpents like Marienne.
He leaned back.
"He wants this contract dead before it begins," Eleanor admitted. "He doesn't want the Moreaus anywhere near his name."
"So he still thinks he owns you."
Silence.
Isabella's gaze softened—barely, but enough for someone who noticed details.
"That's why you didn't sleep."
He didn't answer.
She continued, voice smoother now.
"I'm not going to be a weapon for your family. If we do this, Eleanor, it will be us against the world not you being pulled between two battlegrounds."
Something in his chest tightened at the sound of us not romantic, not sentimental, but practical. A unit. A pair. A mutual protection pact disguised as matrimony.
"We can manage your father later," she said. "Right now, we focus on the announcement."
She pulled a folder across the table.
"Timeline first."
He nodded.
"Let's do it."
Two hours passed.
It wasn't an argument.
But it also wasn't peaceful.
Isabella was sharp, fast, relentless.
Eleanor was steady, logical, and colder than he realized he'd become.
They cut through every decision:
Where they would be seen together first.
Who would leak the engagement story.
Whether to hold a press conference or let rumors bloom.
Which enemies would weaponize the information.
Isabella closed the folder.
"We're agreed on everything except the reason."
"Yes."
She leaned forward.
"This is the part the public cares about most. We need a story that is believable, controllable, and difficult to dissect."
Eleanor thought carefully.
"We can say we met through business."
"Too bland."
"Through mutual acquaintances?"
"Already overused."
"…childhood friends?"
She gave him a look so flat he nearly smirked.
"No one would believe we ever held hands on a playground."
"Fair."
She interlaced her fingers on the table.
"Listen carefully," she said.
"We don't need a sweet origin story. We just need something clean."
"Then what do you suggest?"
She didn't hesitate.
"Mutual respect."
He blinked. "That's it?"
"That's it. We respect each other's capabilities. We value each other's stability. We believe our personalities align."
"That sounds.."
"Cold?" she offered.
"Well.."
"It's supposed to be cold. Because cold is believable. Sweet is not."
He considered it.
Fair point.
"And the marriage itself?" he asked. "How long do you want it to last?"
"Minimum of twelve months. Maximum"
She paused.
"Until we no longer need each other."
"Understood."
Her eyes flicked to him.
"Does that bother you?"
"No."
"Good."
She stood.
"So that leaves the final matter."
He rose as well.
"Which is?"
Isabella walked closer close enough that he could see the faint shade of rose on her lips, the tiny beauty mark near her jaw, the steely calculation hidden deep in her eyes.
"The public must believe," she said softly, "that we are capable of falling in love."
Silence struck between them thin, delicate, dangerous.
Eleanor held her gaze.
"And are we?"
Her breath caught not a gasp, but the smallest shift.
She stepped even closer.
"That doesn't matter," she answered.
"We just need chemistry. Controlled chemistry."
He didn't move away.
"You think we can manage that?"
Isabella's voice dropped, almost a whisper.
"I think you underestimate how convincing I can be."
He almost smiled.
Almost.
"Then let's give them something to believe," he said.
"Exactly."
Their closeness hummed like an unspoken current an electricity neither of them expected, neither welcomed, neither rejected.
For a moment, London existed only beyond the glass walls cold, foggy, oblivious.
Inside this room, something else began taking shape.
Not love.
Not yet.
Not even affection.
Isabella stepped back first.
"Tomorrow morning," she said. "We release the engagement announcement."
"And today?"
She walked toward the door, heels tapping sharp and measured.
"Today," she said without turning, "we start acting like people who might plausibly destroy or save each other."
The door clicked softly behind her.
Eleanor stood alone for a moment, breath steady, heartbeat not quite as calm as before.
Tomorrow, the world would learn about them.
Tonight, he would prepare for a storm both of them had chosen.
Through the glass, the fog over London thinned just enough to reveal a faint shard of sunlight.