10-ISLA

Arthur Orlando's house is nothing short of breathtaking. A masterpiece of Victorian architecture, it stands tall with its grand façade, intricate stone carvings, and towering bay windows. The wrought-iron gates open to a long cobblestone driveway, lined with pristine hedges and marble statues, each one a relic of a bygone era. The mansion itself exudes wealth, the kind that is old and unwavering, the kind that makes you feel small in its presence.

For ten minutes, I just stand there, taking it all in—the soaring turrets, the ornate balconies, the sheer weight of history embedded in every brick.

I exhale, breaking my trance. "Andy, remind me why we don't live in houses like this?"

My secretary, standing beside me, adjusts his tie, lips twitching with amusement. "Because you have a company to run, and no time to gawk at fancy buildings."

I roll my eyes but start walking up the grand steps, Andy following. The heavy wooden doors swing open before I can knock, and inside, a row of perfectly uniformed servants stand in a neat line, bowing their heads in greeting. The air smells of polished wood and fresh lilies, and the floor is so pristine that Andy whispers, "I can see my face in this."

I shake my head as an older man, dressed in an immaculate black suit, approaches. His every movement is refined, his posture a testament to years of service. "Miss Moreau," he says smoothly, "Mr. Orlando is expecting you," gesturing for us to follow.

We weave through the house, past grand chandeliers, oil paintings in gilded frames, and sweeping staircases that look like they belong in a fairytale. Finally, the butler stops before a set of double doors.

"Please, go ahead," he says, bowing slightly.

I push open the door and step inside—only to immediately regret it.

Arthur Orlando sits comfortably on an enormous velvet couch, sipping tea with a warm, welcoming smile. But across from him, sprawled as if he owns the place, is none other than Ciaran Valente.

His sharp gaze locks onto mine the second I enter, and the corner of his mouth lifts in that insufferable smirk, the kind that makes my blood pressure skyrocket.

I school my expression, force a polite smile, and greet Orlando with a respectful nod. "Mr. Orlando." Then, barely sparing Valente a glance, I add flatly, "Valente."

I take my seat across from him, my back straight, my hands clasped together neatly in my lap. Andy settles on the seat beside me. Around us, the walls are covered in priceless paintings, and the coffee table is laden with delicate pastries, porcelain teacups, and what looks like the finest selection of imported teas.

Orlando beams at me. "Miss Moreau, I'm glad you could make it. I trust the journey wasn't too exhausting?"

"I manage," I reply smoothly.

After the Consortium meeting, I received an email instructing me to meet Orlando for a follow-up discussion about the project. The formal nature of the request led me to believe we were supposed to bring assistants, which is why Andy is here. But, of course, Ciaran Valente is alone. Because why would he follow protocol? He acts like he's above it all, as if rules don't apply to him.

Orlando engages in light conversation, mentioning his wife and daughters, his voice filled with warmth. I listen politely, nodding at the right moments, though my attention keeps flicking to the man lounging across from me.

Eventually, Arthur steers the conversation to the reason we're here. "Now, regarding the project," he begins, setting his teacup down with practiced ease. "We'll need to establish clear roles. Miss Moreau, you'll be handling the financial oversight, ensuring that all monetary aspects—from initial investments to projected revenue—align with the Consortium's standards. Given your experience with large-scale budgets, I trust you'll keep things efficient and profitable."

I nod, already running calculations in my head. Glancing at Andy, I catch him jotting down notes in that quick, precise manner of his. He's meticulous, one of the few people I trust to handle things exactly as they should be handled. That's why he's been my secretary for the past five years—because I don't have to double-check his work.

Arthur shifts his gaze to Valente. "As for you, Ciaran, you'll be overseeing the logistics—supplier negotiations, operational execution, and ensuring deadlines are met."

Ciaran's brows pull together slightly, though he doesn't say anything. His fingers tap idly against the arm of the couch as he listens, his expression unreadable.

When Orlando finishes outlining the initial plan, I take a sip of my tea before speaking. "And what about the resource allocation? How are we ensuring efficiency across both companies?"

Before Arthur can answer, Valente leans forward, his voice a lazy drawl. "Does it matter? As long as both sides get their cut, there's no need to micromanage."

I set my cup down a little too firmly, the porcelain clinking against the saucer. Asshole.

"So your grand strategy is to just wing it? No structure, no planning? Brilliant," I say, voice dripping with sarcasm.

He smirks, a slow, aggravating curve of his lips. "I prefer to call it adaptability, sweetheart."

I see red. My fingers tighten around the handle of my teacup. "Call me sweetheart again, Valente, and you won't be adaptable enough to dodge what's coming next."

Arthur clears his throat, amusement flickering in his aged eyes before he smooths it over. He reaches for a thick folder from the side table and slides it toward us. "Before we get too carried away, I'd like you both to go through this. It contains the details of the Consortium project—objectives, terms, partnership clauses, and key contractual agreements. Review it, and let me know if there are any concerns."

I pull the document toward me and flip it open, skimming through the first few pages. I make mental notes, though I tell myself I'll read it thoroughly once I get home.

Then, on page three, something catches my attention.

My eyes narrow at a particular clause, my fingers stilling on the paper. "This—" I start, just as another voice cuts in.

Ciaran.

His tone is sharper than before, his usual laziness replaced by something more focused. "You can't be serious about this."

We both look at each other, realizing we've zeroed in on the same issue.

Arthur merely raises a brow, looking between us with mild amusement. "I assume you both have concerns about that clause?"

I exhale through my nose, tapping my finger against the offending paragraph. "It states that in the event of an operational dispute, final decision-making power falls to the Consortium's chairman. That means you, Mr. Orlando." I lift my gaze. "But that also means that if either Valente or I raise an objection regarding resource distribution, project modifications, or investment scaling, our say can be completely overridden."

Ciaran scoffs, leaning back into the couch. "So, in other words, we do all the work, but if someone throws a wrench in the system, we don't get a say in how it's handled? That's bullshit."

I hate to agree with him, but he's right.

Arthur, however, doesn't look fazed. He clasps his hands together, his demeanor as composed as ever. "This clause is in place to ensure efficiency. Disagreements are inevitable in business, and this structure prevents unnecessary delays."

Andy shifts beside me, discreetly glancing at me for my reaction. I press my lips together, considering my words carefully. "With all due respect, Arthur, that also means we're being asked to put blind trust into decisions that might not align with the project's best interests. Surely, there's a more balanced approach?"

Ciaran's jaw ticks, his fingers drumming against the armrest. "If you wanted puppets, you should've just handed this off to someone who gives a damn about playing nice."

Arthur chuckles, shaking his head. "If I wanted puppets, I wouldn't have chosen the two of you." His gaze sharpens slightly. "Negotiate the terms among yourselves. If you can come up with a revision that satisfies both parties, I'll consider it."

I exhale slowly. That's as much of a concession as we're going to get.

Ciaran tilts his head, watching me like he's waiting for a reaction. "Guess that means we'll be seeing more of each other, sweetheart."

My nails dig into my palm. I force a tight smile. "And guess that means you'll have to use that brain of yours, Valente. Try not to strain yourself."

His grin widens, dark amusement flickering in his eyes.

Arthur sighs. "Try not to kill each other before we even sign the final contract."

No promises.

You said:continueChatGPT said:

Arthur shakes his head, clearly entertained but not willing to entertain our bickering further. He gestures toward the documents in front of us. "I suggest you both take the rest of the evening to go over the terms and come back with something concrete. I expect a joint revision on my desk within three days."

I nod, pressing my lips together. "Understood."

Ciaran, however, stretches lazily, exuding nothing but arrogance. "Sure. Sounds fun."

I swear, if he keeps acting like this is some damn game—

Arthur stands, signaling the meeting's conclusion. "Good. Then we'll reconvene soon."

Andy and I rise from our seats. I extend a polite hand to Arthur, which he shakes firmly, his grip steady. When I turn toward Valente, I don't bother with the same courtesy. Instead, I meet his gaze, my expression neutral.

"Try to take this seriously, Valente. I'd hate for you to fall behind," I say smoothly.

His smirk is infuriating. "Don't worry about me, sweetheart. Worry about yourself."

I shoot him a glare before turning on my heel and walking toward the door. Andy follows closely behind, silent but clearly amused. The moment we step outside the mansion, he lets out a low whistle.

"Well, that went about as smoothly as I expected."

I exhale sharply, massaging my temple. "That man is insufferable."

Andy chuckles. "You realize he's thinking the same thing about you, right?"

I roll my eyes, making my way toward the car. The evening air is cool against my skin, but it does little to temper my frustration.

Three days. Three days of working with Valente to revise this contract. 

God, give me patience.