14- CIARAN

Orlando can't joke to save his life.

Yet, he laughs, amused by whatever ridiculous thing he just said, completely oblivious to the fact that it wasn't even remotely funny.

I don't laugh. Don't even bother with a half-smile. I just sit back in my chair, fingers tapping idly against the armrest, my attention flickering away from him—to something else. Someone else.

Across from me, Isla Moreau wears a neutral expression, though there's a faint curve of her lips—more out of courtesy than amusement. I bet she thinks Orlando's jokes are as bad as I do, but unlike me, she plays along.

We're sitting in the guest room of his house, one of many I've been in over the years. I don't remember which one we were in last time, nor do I particularly care. The decor is pristine, polished to perfection, much like the man himself.

Orlando settles his teacup onto the glass table, the soft clink cutting through the silence. Folding his fingers together, he looks between the two of us with a measured gaze.

"So," he begins, voice calm but expectant. "Have you two meticulously and amiably managed to agree to the clauses of the contract?"

The amiably is sarcasm. I know it. She knows it.

I glance at Isla, and she looks at me at the same time. Something unspoken passes between us.

Yesterday, when we sat through the meeting, I was late by two minutes—two—and this woman had the audacity to lecture me for twelve. A whole damn speech about punctuality and respect for time as if I don't run one of the largest global logistics firms in the world.

A complete waste of time, if you ask me.

And, like the past two days, we argued. Again.

She found fault in everything, poking and prodding like an infuriating perfectionist, while I refused to bend just to entertain her need for control.

Every damn time I left those meetings, I went straight to Ethan for a boxing session. Three days straight, three black eyes for him.

Thanks to Isla Moreau.

But right now, we both nod at Orlando, biting down our inner thoughts.

Orlando leans back. "Good. Since the contract is finalized, and you're both clear on the project's details, you'll start working on it tomorrow."

He goes on, explaining a few final points—the schedule, the key deadlines, the expectations. I nod, taking in the important parts.

Then he adds, "This project is very significant. The client demands perfection in its supremacy. There's zero room for errors."

His tone leaves no space for argument.

We both answer in unison, "Understood."

Coincidentally it makes sense of the two of us being chosen for this project . The Moreaus specialize in luxury real estate, while the Valentes dominate global logistics. This project requires an intricate blend of both.

A perfect fit.

Orlando exhales, clearly relieved to have his role in this over with. "That settles it, then. My job was limited to the contract. From here on out, how this project unfolds is on you two."

He shoots me a look, then Isla. "Don't bother me with any petty disputes." His lips twitch. "I know the animosity between you both, but frankly? I don't care."

Of course, he doesn't. The old man enjoys watching the chaos.

We exchange a few more words—small talk, mostly—and then we leave.

Outside, the night air is cool, a sharp contrast to the stifling tension between us.

As soon as we step away from the house, Isla turns to me. "I'll send you the location for our first discussion."

I give her a flat look. "Why?"

She blinks. "Why what?"

"Why meet anywhere else?" I slide my hands into my pockets, voice impassive. "That's just inviting the paparazzi to have a field day."

Her expression twists into a scowl. "So, what? You're suggesting we go to each other's companies?"

I shrug. I hate the idea of her stepping into my company as much as she probably hates me stepping into hers, but for the sake of this project—and more importantly, for my own reasons—I have to agree.

"I'm not stepping into your company," Isla says, arms crossed, head tilted in defiance.

"And I'm sure as hell not meeting you anywhere else," I counter, voice low, steady.

Her eyes narrow. "Don't be ridiculous."

I let out a dry laugh, stepping closer. "Me? Ridiculous? You're the one suggesting we meet outside in some random location, practically handing the paparazzi a golden fucking opportunity."

She exhales sharply through her nose, irritation flashing across her face. "If you're so paranoid about the media, then maybe you should stay out of my company."

I arch a brow. "Your company?"

"Yes, my company."

Her chin tilts up, and I catch the way her fingers dig into her own arms, like she's holding herself back from launching into another one of her infuriating lectures.

I take a step forward, closing the space between us, getting a whip of the damn floral scent. "The media already knows we're working together, Moreau. You really think they won't figure out where we're meeting?"

She lets out a sound of pure frustration. "I hate that you're making sense."

"That must be hard for you," I say dryly.

Her glare sharpens.

I smirk.

For another minute, we stand there, locked in a silent battle of wills, neither of us wanting to be the first to back down.

But in the end, we agree.

Work meetings will take place in our respective companies. Nowhere else.

She exhales, the sound sharp, begrudging. "Fine."

She all but spits the word through her teeth, then turns on her heel, her long, golden hair sweeping in the gentlest, barely-there brush against my arm as she storms off.

I watch as she strides toward her car and slipping inside with practiced grace.

The engine purrs to life, headlights cutting through the dimly lit street. And then, within seconds, she's gone, speeding out of the residency without so much as a glance back.

I stay still for a moment, jaw tight, pulse a little too aware of how fucking annoying she is.

Then I pull out my phone and dial a number.

The line barely rings before it's picked up.

"Meet me at my house in ten minutes," I say, not bothering with pleasantries.

A grunt of acknowledgment comes from the other end.

I hang up, sliding my phone back into my pocket, then walk to my car.

Sliding into the driver's seat, I grip the wheel, exhaling through my nose before starting the engine.

I drive, the city lights blurring past, but my mind is fucking elsewhere—clogged with thoughts of her. Isla Moreau.

It's annoying. Like a goddamn housefly buzzing around my head that I can't seem to swat away.

I can still see her. That perfect posture. The way her arms crossed with just enough defiance to make my fingers itch. And that red lipstick.

I had wanted to smudge it. Bruise her lips until they were a fucking mess. Until she was a fucking mess. I can see it—her usual prim and proper facade cracking, her breathing uneven, her eyes clouded in something other than irritation.

Fuck.

I press my foot harder against the gas, the speedometer ticking up. I barely give a shit about the traffic laws. If someone's too slow in front of me, they'll fucking move.

I hate that I let that woman get under my skin.

The buzzing of my phone cuts through my thoughts, dragging me back to reality. I glance at the screen, eyes narrowing at the name flashing across it.

Lucas Hale.

I tap the button on my steering wheel, connecting the call through Bluetooth.

"What?"

A chuckle filters through the speaker, low and amused. "Jesus, someone's in a mood."

"Did you call to talk about my mood, or do you actually have something?"

Hale snorts but his voice shifts, turning serious. "I looked into the accident."

My grip on the wheel tightens instantly.

A muscle ticks in my jaw. "And?"

"I was going through the CCTV footage again—the one from the night of the crash." His tone sharpens, no longer holding even a hint of amusement. "You remember I told you there were people there? Witnesses?"

My knuckles tighten further. "Yeah."

"Well, I found one of them. And something about him is off."

A slow exhale leaves me. "What do you mean, off?"

"He was standing across the street. Close enough to see the whole fucking thing. But here's the kicker—while everyone else ran towards the scene, this guy?" Hale pauses. "He walked away. Didn't so much as flinch."

My pulse hammers, blood rushing to my ears.

"Do you have his details?"

There's a brief silence before he exhales. "They're on the way. I'll send them to you as soon as I get them."

I take a sharp left turn, my jaw clenched so fucking tight it aches.

"It better be right."

Hale scoffs. "I know what I'm doing, Valente."

I don't answer. Just grip the wheel harder, my mind racing.