8-ISLA

"Power is about control, Valente, not destruction."

My voice is clear, steady, sharp. I don't look away from him, don't give him the satisfaction of thinking he's the only one in this room who understands power.

Ciaran's expression shifts. The smirk fades. His brows knit slightly, as if my words actually require thought. As if he didn't expect me to counter him.

I take it further. "You believe eliminating competition is the key to dominance. But what you're forgetting is that in business, chaos is not control—it's desperation."

I see the slight flex of his jaw. I tilt my chin, my voice unwavering. "A true leader doesn't need to eliminate threats to stay on top. They mold the battlefield to their advantage. Turn adversaries into assets. That's power."

Ciaran Valente's gaze is piercing and it irritates me to the very core.

He raises a brow. "And what happens when your so-called assets turn against you, Moreau?" His voice is low and taunting. "When they sink their teeth into the hand that feeds them?"

I hold his gaze. "Then you were never in control to begin with."

A flicker of something flashes in his eyes. The smirk is gone, replaced by something colder, more calculating. His jaw ticks, but it's the way his fingers tighten over the pen in his hand that tells me I've struck a nerve.

Then, predictably, he recovers. Ciaran Valente always does. He exhales, a scoff disguised as a laugh, before leaning back in his chair. "Spoken like someone who still believes in fair play." He tilts his head. "Remind me, Moreau, wasn't your family's empire running quite differently before you took over? Some would say… more efficiently."

I go rigid. The jab lands exactly where he wants it to—right at the unspoken comparison between me and my brother.

Low fucking blow, Valente.

My fingers curl into my palm, nails pressing against my skin as I straighten in my seat. "Careful, Mr. Valente. You don't want to finish that sentence."

His lips curl, his gaze sharp and knowing. "And why is that?"

"Because unlike you, I don't need to play dirty to win." My voice is smooth, sweet—a dangerous contrast to the fire in my veins. "And you're still grasping at underhanded tactics like a man too afraid to see what happens when the playing field is level."

A beat of silence. His eyes darken, and I know I've hit my mark.

The tension crackles before Orlando's voice slices through it.

"That's enough," the chairman announces, his tone laced with finality. "We are here to discuss strategies, not personal grievances."

I inhale sharply, forcing my expression back into composure as I tear my glare away from Ciaran.

Across the table, he exhales, slow and unbothered, before muttering, "That's difficult."

I bite back the urge to throw something at his arrogant face.

Orlando scans the room before speaking again. "Do we have anything else to add before we move forward?"

A few murmurs ripple through the crowd, but no one speaks up. Someone say something but I barely register the movement around me. I force myself to exhale, steady, even though my blood hums with restrained frustration.

I square my shoulders, but before I can open my mouth, Orlando speaks.

"Well," he begins, his voice smooth but firm, "I must say, this was… enlightening. While I expected strong opinions, I must commend the three of you for your initiative." His gaze flickers between me, Ciaran, and Lucien Bellarose.

I force my fingers to unclench from the fists they had curled into. Orlando's expression remains unreadable, but I know whatever he says next will shift the course of this meeting.

"That said," he continues, leaning forward slightly, "it is precisely that initiative that makes you the ideal candidates for this venture."

My breath catches. What?

The murmurs in the room grow louder, some nodding in agreement while others whisper to their neighbors. Even Madam Fitzgerald, one of the senior members, lets out a small squeak of surprise.

"What do you mean?" she asks.

Orlando laces his fingers together. "This was one of the key agendas for today's meeting—a joint venture led by the strongest players in this room."

I stiffen. A joint venture? With him?

Lucien raises a hand, his expression impassive. "I'd prefer to decline."

Orlando's brows lift. "You're certain?"

Lucien glances at Ciaran before looking back at Orlando. "I have no issue with Moreau Enterprises," he says, his tone calm but firm. "But I refuse to work with Valente."

His statement isn't surprising. Ciaran's reputation precedes him, after all. He doesn't do partnerships; he absorbs, dominates, and destroys.

But me? I can't afford to let this opportunity slip.

I glance at Ciaran. His expression is unreadable, his fingers still lazily tapping against the table. He isn't looking at me, not yet. But I can feel the weight of his presence.

"If either of you backs out," Orlando states, cutting through the tension, "then the sole responsibility and funding will fall to the one who remains."

My stomach knots.

I need this. Moreau Enterprises needs this.

Even if it means working with my nemesis.

Ciaran speaks first, his voice dripping with casual indifference. "Fine." He exhales, tilting his head slightly. Then his eyes flick to mine. "I have no issue working with a Moreau."

I scoff. How generous.

I straighten my spine, keeping my tone measured. "I don't have a problem either."

A Moreau and a Valente. A historic partnership.