The gates of the Rousseau estate groaned as they opened, heavy iron jaws parting to welcome the only person alive and wanting who could now call this place hers. Lila didn't twitch at the sound. She sat perfectly still in the back of the black Mercedes, her fingers wrapped around the leather-bound notebook her father had left for her like it was a weapon.
Because it was.
The car rolled past manicured lawns and marble statues that had stared down the city's worst criminals and whispered nothing. The chateau loomed ahead—stone, elegant, untouched by time but steeped in secrets. Inside those walls, her father built an empire. One that men killed for. One she was now expected to inherit with grace... or surrender.
But surrendering had never been her style.
The car stopped. A man opened the door. No greeting. Just a nod.
She stepped out, heels clicking against ancient stone, wind tugging at her coat. Her father's ring—black, gold, and cruel—sat on her right hand now.
She made sure everyone saw it. They needed to know who called the shots.
Inside, the air was colder than outside. The hall echoed with quiet footsteps and unspoken challenges. Men waited for her in the main room. Some old. Some powerful. All skeptical.
The Council.
Not official. But dangerous enough to make decisions when the King was dead.
Matthieu flanked her, unreadable as ever. She didn't need him to speak. His presence alone screamed: Touch her and die.
The leather of the chair groaned softly beneath her as Lila leaned back, one leg crossed elegantly over the other, fingers rhythmically tapping the armrest like a slow countdown to war. The mahogany conference table before her, long and polished to a weapon's gleam, reflected the cold light of the chandelier overhead. Around it sat men—older, grayer, and greedier than they were dangerous.
"Lila."
The first voice came from Gérard Lefevre, a heavyset man in a dark suit and darker mood. He had handled the Syndicate's money for fifteen years—and probably laundered more than anyone knew.
"I expected mourning," he said. "Instead, you called a meeting."
"I expected respect," she replied, taking her seat at the head of the table, "and yet you opened your mouth."
A few brows raised. A few smiles twitched. Not everyone hated her spine.
"I'm sure we can all agree," said Lucien Blanchet, smooth, pale, and fox-like, "that we're simply concerned. The Rousseau name carries weight. But weight can sink just as easily as it commands."
"Then perhaps you should swim harder." Lila said, placing the notebook on the table with a soft thud.
Silence.
From the right, another man cleared his throat as he spoke "Your father was a man of force. Feared. Ruthless. You, Miss Rousseau, are..."
"Alive," she interrupted, lifting her chin. "Which is more than I can say for him at present."
Silence.
Matthieu stood behind her, arms crossed, expression carved from granite. The low hum of his presence had already kept half of them from raising their voices.
Lila's gaze swept the table slowly. "The Rousseau syndicate does not die with my father. I'm not here to keep his seat warm. I'm here to rebuild the fire."
A second man, Gaétan, leaned forward, fat fingers laced beneath his jowled chin. "You're young. Unproven. And your enemies know it. You'll make us all targets."
Lila smiled, slow and sharp. "Then it's a good thing I'm not afraid of blood."
Matthieu didn't move, but the corner of his mouth twitched. The men noticed.
Good.
Gaétan continued, tone patronizing. "The Shadows are already circling. They believe you're weak. They—"
"They?" Her voice cut through like a blade. "Tell them I said thank you—for the invitation. I've been wanting to stretch my claws for a long period of time."
Another pause. Matthieu spoke, voice smooth as ice. "You came today expecting a little girl mourning her father. I bet you're surprised, you should leave knowing there's a lioness at the head of this table."
Lila smirked, as she opened it slowly, flipping to a bookmarked page. "My father's final notes. Contacts. Routes. Favors owed. Secrets buried. I have it all. What I don't have is patience."
Lucien leaned forward, voice velvet. "It's not your patience we're worried about, ma chère. It's your survival." (my dear)
Lila smiled. But it didn't reach her eyes. "Then let me make one thing clear."
She stood, eyes sweeping the room like a blade. "I'm not here to wear my father's crown. I'm here to wield it. If any of you think you can do better—there's the door. Try. I dare you."
Matthieu's lips curled just slightly. Pride, maybe. Or something darker.
No one moved. No one spoke.
Good.
Lila sat again, calm as smoke.
"Meeting adjourned," she said. "You know your jobs. Do them."
The men rose slowly. Some nodded. Some didn't. But none dared speak again.
As they filed out, Matthieu remained. He poured her a glass of wine from her father's old decanter.
"You made a statement," he said.
"I meant to."
"They'll test you."
"I hope they do."
He studied her, then said softly, "You look like him. When he was young. Angry. Sharp."
She sipped her wine. "I'm not him."
"No," Matthieu murmured. "You're worse."
Meanwhile....
Jace Durant lounged on the balcony of a rundown hotel across the city, his legs kicked up, a pair of binoculars in one hand and a slice of tarte in the other. He'd watched the convoy arrive. Watched the girl walk into a kingdom that wanted to eat her alive.
And walk out untouched.
He whistled low.
"She's a hell of a lot more than they told me," he muttered to himself.
He opened a new message draft to Les Ombres.
Observation continues.
Recommend staying out of her way.....or bringing a bodybag.
Sent..
He closed the phone and leaned back with a smirk.
This mission was about to get interesting.
---
Later that afternoon, she stood on the cliffside balcony outside the estate's west wing. Normandy's wind was brisk, carrying the scent of salt and roses. Below, the crashing waves pounded against stone with the kind of anger she'd come to admire.
She was sipping red wine, letting it sit on her tongue like a thought she wasn't quite ready to speak aloud. The wind tugged at her coat, whipping strands of red hair across her cheek.
"Feisty little thing, aren't you?"
She didn't turn around. "You're either brave or stupid for infiltrating my abode."
"I like to think I'm charming."
That voice.
Not Matthieu.
Not anyone she knew.
She turned slowly, eyes landing on a man casually perched on the edge of the railing like he didn't know how high the drop was. Or maybe he didn't care. None of her business.
Jet-black shirt. Hands in his pockets. That maddeningly easy grin that screamed, I'm not supposed to be here but aren't you glad I am?
"I don't remember inviting you to my estate." she said, voice low.
"Didn't say you did." He tilted his head. "Jace Durant. Just passing through."
Jace Durant.
She knew he was trouble. Maybe even a ghost sent by the wind. But her gut whispered something else—curiosity, sharp and tinged with danger.
"You're with the Shadows," she said, already knowing.
His smile didn't falter. "I'm from the Shadows. Whether I'm with them is still up for debate."
She stepped closer, wine glass dangling from her fingers. "Spies usually have a purpose."
"Sure. Mine was to scope out the new queen. See if the rumors were true."
"And?"
Jace's eyes dropped to her mouth, then back up to her eyes. "They undersold you."
A dangerous compliment.
Lila turned her back to him, letting the tension snap like a rubber band. "You shouldn't be here. My guards are... less charming than I am."
"I've got about ten more seconds before Matthieu comes storming through that door, doesn't he?"
"Seven."
He laughed, a low sound that sparked something warm in the cold wind. "Well, it was nice meeting you, Little Tigress."
She spun at the nickname—Matthieu's nickname for her. But Jace was already gone, like smoke blown off the edge of the world.
Behind her, footsteps.
"Was that him?" Matthieu's voice was hard.
Lila didn't answer. She was staring at the spot where Jace had vanished, wine glass still in hand, lips slightly parted.
"Next time, I won't be late," Matthieu said.
She nodded slowly, but her thoughts were already elsewhere. On shadows with smirks. On enemies who didn't act like enemies.
"Little Tigress," Matthieu said again, gentler this time. "You okay?"
"Yeah," she said, lying. "I just didn't think ghosts wore leather jackets."
---
That night, she sat alone in her father's study. The old desk still smelled like cigars and ink. On it lay the dossier Matthieu had prepared.
Jace Durant: Shadows syndicate
Dangerous. Unpredictable.
Her fingers brushed the edge of the paper.
She smiled. Just as she thought.
"Perfect."