The first hour after the announcement felt unreal.
Not chaotic.
Not loud.
Just unnervingly still like the world was inhaling sharply before screaming.
From the 48th floor of the Moreau tower, London glittered beneath a pale winter sun. Cars moved like tiny metallic insects, unaware that their city had just been handed a brand-new obsession.
Inside the conference room, Eleanor watched the notification feed explode across the large wall display.
VANCE–MOREAU ENGAGEMENT BREAKS MORNING NEWS
A UNION OF POWER: WHAT THIS MEANS FOR LONDON'S CORPORATE LANDSCAPE
WHO IS ISABELLA MOREAU TO ELEANOR VANCE?
Hundreds of headlines multiplied like wildfire.
But very little mattered compared to the woman standing beside him.
Isabella stood near the window, arms folded tightly, back straight every inch of her radiating poise.
If she felt fear, she hid it with the precision of a surgeon.
Her reflection ghosted against the glass: sharp jawline, dark eyes shadowed with calculation, a faint tension around her mouth.
Eleanor watched her.
Quietly.
Carefully.
She hadn't spoken since the announcement went live.
Finally, she broke the silence.
"Our phones will start ringing any moment."
"Let them ring," Eleanor replied. "We answer nothing until after noon."
She didn't argue. But her fingers those delicate, practiced hands tightened slightly.
"You're thinking ahead," he said.
"I'm thinking survival."
"For us?"
"For the company."
He stepped closer. "That's not the only thing at stake."
Her eyes flicked to his reflection. "Don't make this personal."
"Maybe it already is."
Her breath hitched—not visibly, but he heard it.
A soft, thin sound, like the cracking of ice beneath weight.
She lowered her gaze.
"I can't afford 'personal' right now."
"You can't afford to pretend you're made of marble either."
That got her.
A flicker.
A tiny shift in her shoulders.
Before she could respond, the double doors burst open.
Lucien Moreau.
Isabella's father never entered rooms he stormed into them.
Tall, silver-haired, with a scowl carved deep into patrician bones, he carried the fury of a man watching his empire tilt.
He slammed the door behind him.
"So," he spat, "you went behind my back."
Eleanor kept still.
This was Isabella's battlefield.
She didn't flinch.
"This wasn't your decision to make," she said.
"This was exactly my decision!" Lucien snapped. "You let the entire city believe you're marrying that.."
Eleanor's gaze sharpened.
Lucien didn't finish the word.
Good.
Isabella stepped forward, chin high, voice steady.
"I released our engagement because your leak threatened to spiral out of control. You forced my hand."
"My leak?" Lucien's laugh was ugly, hollow. "Don't pretend you're clever enough to hold this family together. That boy.." he jabbed a finger toward Eleanor, "..is using you."
"And you're not?" Isabella countered.
The silence cracked like a whip.
Lucien's face darkened.
"You are my daughter."
"I am not your pawn."
Lucien inhaled sharply. "If you continue this madness, the board will call for a vote…"
"Let them." Her eyes turned glacial. "If they think you can still lead after months of disastrous decisions, they're more delusional than I thought."
Eleanor hid his surprise.
She was sharper today.
Quicker.
Harder.
A storm wearing heels.
Lucien turned his glare to Eleanor.
"This is your doing."
Eleanor stepped forward, not aggressively, but with unshakeable calm.
"I didn't force your daughter to do anything," he said. "She made a logical move. The announcement protects our companies. It restores market trust."
"You know nothing about market trust," Lucien snarled. "Your family nearly collapsed under scandal.."
"And yours will collapse under incompetence," Eleanor replied with lethal quiet.
Lucien's breath shook.
Isabella didn't intervene.
Not yet.
"You think," Lucien spat, "that marrying my daughter gives you leverage? That you can walk in here and challenge me?"
"No," Eleanor said. "I think marrying your daughter protects her from the damage you've been doing for years."
Lucien froze.
His eyes widened a burst of wounded pride, disbelief that anyone had dared say it aloud.
Isabella exhaled very quietly.
It wasn't relief.
It was something closer to recognition.
Lucien stepped closer, voice trembling.
"You will regret this alliance," he hissed. "Both of you."
Then he turned sharply and left, slamming the door so hard it rattled the glass.
The echo lingered.
Silence wrapped the room again.
Eleanor looked at Isabella.
Her shoulders were stiff.
Her jaw locked.
Her breath shallow.
He approached her slowly—not touching, just standing beside her.
"You okay?" he asked gently.
She didn't answer immediately.
Then.
"Do you know what he fears?" she whispered.
Eleanor shook his head.
"Losing control of his narrative," she said. "He built this company on his image, and now it's slipping through his fingers."
Eleanor studied her profile.
"And what do you fear?"
She hesitated.
A dangerous, fragile kind of hesitation.
Then she spoke.
"Becoming him."
The admission was soft.
Raw.
Unvarnished.
It hit him like cold water.
"You're not him," Eleanor said.
"You don't know that."
"I know enough."
"Do you?" Her voice cracked again barely audible. "Because every decision I make now is a calculation. Every move is power against power. Every day feels like a war I didn't ask for."
He turned fully to her.
"And yet you're winning."
"That's what terrifies me."
A beat.
A long, trembling beat.
Eleanor's chest tightened not with pity, but something heavier, deeper.
She wasn't built for fragility.
She wasn't built for surrender.
But this this quiet fracture felt like standing inside the eye of a storm she'd been holding in for years.
"Isabella," he said softly, "look at me."
She did.
Her eyes darkened not with anger or calculation, but something dangerously human.
"You're not becoming him," Eleanor said. "You're becoming someone stronger."
"And what happens if strong isn't enough?" she whispered.
"Then I'll be there."
Her breath caught.
Almost imperceptibly.
"You sound certain."
"I am."
She steadied herself, walls rising again but slower this time, not as high.
"Eleanor," she said quietly, "we're walking into a battlefield with nothing but a press release and stubbornness."
"And strategy," he corrected. "Don't forget that."
A ghost of a smile touched her lips small, elegant, painfully brief.
Before she could reply, both their phones buzzed simultaneously.
The first wave of public reaction.
Notifications flooded the screen:
The engagement is trending #1 in the UK.
Top 5 in the US.
Top 3 in France.
Stock predictions rise for both companies.
Public sentiment: 72% positive.
Isabella stared.
Eleanor let out a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding.
A tide unexpected, overwhelming began sweeping in their favor.
But victory never came without consequences.
Isabella lowered her phone slowly.
"This changes everything," she murmured.
Eleanor stepped close enough that she could feel the warmth of him.
"No," he said. "This reveals everything."
She looked up.
"What do you mean?"
He held her gaze.
"That your father underestimated you.
That the city didn't.
And that this… alliance we forged?"
A pause.
Dangerous.
Electric.
"It's no longer something either of us can afford to break."
Her breath stilled.
Not fear.
Recognition.
Because somewhere in the chaos of strategy and survival, something else had begun forming between them too subtle to name, too sharp to ignore.
Isabella turned away first, but her voice was softer than before.
"We need a press conference."
"Yes," Eleanor answered. "Together."
Her gaze lifted again steady, composed, but different.
"Then prepare yourself," she said.
"The storm we started is about to answer back."
Eleanor smiled cold, elegant, certain.
"Let it."
Outside, London erupted with whispers.
Inside, two people who should never have stood on the same side found themselves locked in the same war.
And neither of them was ready for what that war would demand next.