Silence detonates across the room.
I hold it up, too furious to utter a fucking word.
One of the investors leans forward, his jowls swinging in shock. ‘This is public? Already?’
Belle nods, swallowing. ‘They filed a press release with the AMF—the French financial authority. It’s everywhere.’
No loopholes.
No room to negotiate.
No fucking Hartmann Riviera Hotel in Cannes.
It’s official.
This is war.
Chapter Nineteen
ZARA
Paris in February is crisp, cold and colourful. The whole city glows like it’s been dusted in diamonds. Streetlamps cast pools of golden light onto slick cobblestones, couples huddle beneath umbrellas, and the Seine shimmers like liquid silver beneath the bridges.
It’s Valentine’s Day. Rian, the newly converted romantic, booked the family jet, and reserved an entire floor of the most decadent hotel in Paris, The Hôtel Plaza Athénée. Its exterior gleams like an elaborate jewellery box on Avenue Montaigne—red awnings, roses everywhere, just in case one might forget it’s Valentine’s weekend. Rian insisted we escape the Jack O’Connor search in favour of spending the weekend in the city of love, celebrating his and Rebekka’s one-year anniversary. Apparently, this is the day they ‘sealed the deal’ last year.
I love my brother, but that is too much information.
Still, there’s no way I’d turn down a trip to Paris.
Even if I am the only single Beckett here.
Shame I couldn’t bring my business as my date—becauseit’s never looked more beautiful. After a rocky first week back, things are on the up. Beckett Deluxe Design just secured a massive contract with the British branch of the Crownwell Hotel Group—our first full-scale international rollout, spanning six boutique properties across London and Edinburgh.
Cosmopolitan UK emailed yesterday requesting an interview for their ‘Women Who Build Empires’ feature, which Nico nearly fainted over.
And, as if that wasn’t surreal enough, I’ve been shortlisted for Ireland’s Young Businesswoman of the Year Award.
Professionally, I’m winning.
Personally? When I look around at my loved up family, I’m not so sure.
We’re gathered in the hotel’s private penthouse bar, thirty floors above Paris. The windows stretch from floor to ceiling, the Eiffel Tower dominating the skyline in the distance. The city sparkles beneath us—gold, silver, and midnight blue. The bar smells like champagne, money and old-world power.
The Becketts fit right in.
Most of the Becketts anyway.
James stands in a sharp, tailored suit looking at Scarlett like he’s about to devour her. Killian’s positioned near the glass balcony doors with Avery, but his eyes are tracking every exit like he’s scouring for a sniper. Caelon leans against the marble bar, with his arm draped around Ivy. They brought the kids’ nannies so they could really enjoy the break. No doubt I’ll have another niece or nephew before the year is over if the come-to-bed eyes they’re giving each other is anything to go on. Sean’s charming Layla, whispering God only knows what filth into her ear. Rian is glowing like he invented love itself, his hand permanently planted on the base of Rebekka’s spine. My mother floats around her sons with her usualelegance. Her arm is linked through my father’s like they’re just courting instead of forty years married.
And then there’s me.
Three weeks home, and I still don’t feel like myself. It’s probably jet lag. Work overload. These new developments are exciting, but the burden of them weighs heavily on me.
A random wave of nausea rolls through me from nowhere.
We might have come to Paris to celebrate Valentine’s Day, but the Becketts are celebrating another victory too. My brothers congregate closer until they’re forming a semi-circle. With a whiskey in one hand, and a woman in the other, they all look like a poster advert for the billionaire playboys they used to be—most of them, anyway. Sean was never seen with a woman until he met Layla.
‘He couldn’t possibly have seen it coming.’ Caelon shakes his head; his entire face is lit up in a grin.
