CHAPTER THREE — PARIS AWAITS
The rhythmic hum of the private jet was the only sound as Arielle Stone leaned back in her seat, the world spread like silk clouds beneath her.
Paris. The city of beginnings and betrayals.
She'd promised herself never to return here — not after everything that happened five years ago — but life, she was learning, had a cruel sense of irony.
The invitation from Damian Voss hadn't just reopened a door; it had resurrected a ghost.
Mira sat opposite her, flipping through design mockups on a tablet. "We've confirmed the venue, Miss Stone. The Voss Foundation Gala will be at the Château de Clairmont. He's reserved the entire estate."
"Of course he has," Arielle murmured, glancing out the window. "When Damian wants the world to notice, he buys the view."
She tapped her pen thoughtfully against her notebook. "Double the lighting crew. I want everything luminous — timeless. Paris won't outshine my design."
Mira smiled. "Noted. The gala's theme?"
Arielle paused, eyes tracing the horizon. "Rebirth," she said finally. "Gold, ivory, and crystal. Beauty rebuilt from ruin."
"Poetic," Mira whispered. "Almost… personal."
Arielle didn't answer. Some truths were better left unsaid.
---
Hours later, as the jet descended over Paris, the city glowed beneath them — a tapestry of light and elegance, centuries of luxury wrapped in dusk.
The moment her heels touched the marble floor of Le Grand Elyseé, the world seemed to shift. Cameras flashed. Hotel staff whispered her name. Maison d'Elise had become a legend in the luxury circuit — and Arielle wore its success like armor.
She was halfway through her room briefing when the concierge approached, his expression cautious.
"Pardon, Mademoiselle Stone. A delivery has arrived for you."
Arielle frowned. "From whom?"
He handed her a velvet box. "No sender, but it came by Voss Enterprises courier."
Her heartbeat slowed, then quickened. She dismissed the staff with a nod and carried the box to the window. Paris glittered beyond the glass — the Eiffel Tower a crown of light against midnight.
Inside the box lay a single item: a diamond hairpin shaped like a falling star. No note. No explanation.
But she didn't need one.
Damian.
Her fingers brushed the jewel, cool against her skin. It was exquisite — and infuriating. A silent message. A reminder.
> He remembers.
She placed it on the table, untouched. "Not this time," she whispered. "I won't play his game."
---
Across the Seine, Damian Voss stood on the terrace of the Clairmont Estate, phone pressed to his ear as he watched crews prepare the gala site.
"Every detail is to her specification," he instructed. "If she wants stars on the ceiling, make it happen."
Jonah's voice crackled on the line. "Understood, sir. And the gift?"
"She received it," Damian said, his tone unreadable. "I wasn't expecting a thank-you."
Jonah hesitated. "You think she'll come?"
Damian's lips curved faintly. "Arielle always comes where beauty and war coexist. This gala is both."
He turned toward the grand ballroom — a cathedral of glass and chandeliers. The scent of roses drifted through the air. It reminded him of her — quiet strength wrapped in luxury.
Five years hadn't dulled the image of that night. The boardroom fallout. Her shattered gaze when she realized his signature had sealed her father's downfall. He'd told himself it was just business. But watching her walk away, her composure cracking under the weight of betrayal, had cost him something he could never admit — not even to himself.
Now, fate had brought her back to his empire, and he intended to rewrite their story — even if she didn't believe in redemption.
---
The next morning, Arielle stood before the vast ballroom, her design blueprints spread across a marble table. The early Paris light poured in like liquid gold. Workers moved around her in quiet precision.
"This wall gets the projection," she directed. "Glass arches here. And I want the crystal centerpiece suspended above the main staircase — just low enough to reflect light off the guests' champagne."
Her words were sharp, deliberate, confident. She lived for control. Every detail had to be perfect, because perfection left no room for vulnerability.
"Miss Stone," a voice interrupted behind her — low, dark, unmistakable.
She froze before slowly turning.
Damian.
He was dressed in black, sleeves rolled, no tie — casual power at its most dangerous. The sunlight caught the silver of his watch, the cut of his jaw.
> "You didn't tell me you'd arrive a day early," he said.
"I don't ask permission to work," she replied smoothly.
He smiled faintly. "Still fearless."
"Still arrogant."
The corners of his mouth lifted, but his eyes softened. "I see Paris suits you."
"It suits anyone who knows how to wear success."
Their gazes held — charged, silent, electric. Somewhere behind them, workers moved quietly, pretending not to notice the tension between two people who once shared more than rivalry.
Damian's voice broke the stillness. "The theme — rebirth. Interesting choice."
"It felt… appropriate."
"For me or for you?"
"Both," she said, her voice steady. "I'm rebuilding beauty. You're rebuilding your image."
He chuckled quietly. "Then maybe we can help each other."
"I don't need help," she said, turning back to her sketches. "Just resources."
"You always did know how to ask for the impossible."
She looked at him then — truly looked — and saw something different behind the arrogance. Guilt? Regret? She forced herself not to care.
> "This gala," she said, "will be unforgettable. But don't mistake that for forgiveness."
He studied her for a moment, then nodded slowly. "Then let's make history, Arielle."
As he walked away, she caught a glimpse of his reflection in the glass — powerful, untouchable… yet haunted.
And though she refused to admit it, a small part of her wondered if revenge would still feel as sweet when the man she hated looked at her like that.
---
That night, alone in her Paris suite, Arielle stood by the window watching the city sparkle below. The hairpin still sat untouched beside her.
Outside, the bells of Notre-Dame tolled softly, echoing across the Seine — a whisper of beginnings.
She pressed a hand against the glass and closed her eyes.
> "You took everything from me, Damian," she murmured. "Now, I'll take your peace."
But deep down, even she wasn't sure which of them would survive what came next.
Woah
Xoxo Eloura 😘 😘 😘