Paris glittered the way it always did—like it had never known fear.
Crystal chandeliers poured light over marble floors, laughter floated easily through gilded halls, and champagne flutes clinked as if the world beyond the château gates wasn't ruled by guns, secrets, and blood oaths. To the guests, tonight was elegant. Prestige. Power dressed in silk.
To Amélie Laurent, it was a reminder that no matter how high the ceilings were, a cage was still a cage.
She stood alone on the balcony, her fingers curled around the cold iron railing, staring down at the gardens below. The roses were perfectly trimmed, red petals blooming beneath soft lantern light. Her father loved roses. Said they reminded him that beauty always required thorns.
Amélie hated how true that was.
Behind her, the soft echo of polished shoes crossed the marble floor. She didn't need to turn to know who it was.
"You disappeared," her father said calmly. "That worries people."
She exhaled slowly. "Let them worry."
Lucien Laurent stopped beside her, tall and immaculately dressed, his presence commanding even in silence. His dark hair was brushed back, his face composed, but Amélie knew him too well to miss the sharpness in his eyes tonight. Her father was always most dangerous when he looked calm.
"You should be inside," he continued. "They came to see you."
"They came to see you," she corrected. "I'm just decoration."
Lucien's lips curved faintly. "You are far more than that."
She finally turned to him. "Then why does my life feel like a performance written by men who never ask what I want?"
For a moment, the music from inside swallowed the silence between them. Lucien studied her face—the intelligence in her eyes, the stubborn line of her jaw—and something like regret flickered across his expression before disappearing.
"You want freedom," he said. "I want you alive. We don't always get both."
Amélie folded her arms. "Freedom shouldn't cost blood."
Lucien stepped closer. His voice dropped. "In our world, it always does."
Their world.
That was the thing no one ever said out loud.
The Laurent name carried centuries of aristocratic weight in France—old money, old influence, political respect. But beneath it lay something far darker. Something whispered only in closed rooms and shadowed corners.
Lucien Laurent was not just a power broker.
He was a king of the European underworld.
And Amélie was his daughter.
A princess born not just of privilege—but of blood.
"You look troubled," Lucien said softly. "That tells me you already know."
Her chest tightened. "Know what?"
He didn't answer immediately. Instead, he removed his jacket and draped it over her shoulders, an instinctive gesture that reminded her painfully that no matter how ruthless he was, he was still her father.
"Tonight," he said, "you will meet someone important."
Her fingers clenched into the fabric. "Important to you?"
"Important to our survival."
Amélie's eyes narrowed. "That never ends well."
Lucien met her gaze. "His name is Vittorio Russo."
The name hit her like a slap.
Her breath caught. "No."
Lucien's expression hardened. "Yes."
"The Russo syndicate is our enemy," she said sharply. "They've been our enemy since before I was born."
"They are also powerful," Lucien replied. "And right now, power is more valuable than pride."
Amélie shook her head. "You can't be serious. Their territory stretches across Italy and parts of Eastern Europe. Their hands are soaked in blood."
Lucien's eyes darkened. "So are ours."
Silence fell heavy between them.
"You want me to smile at a man whose family has tried to destroy ours?" she asked.
"I want you to stand beside me," Lucien said. "And remind him what he can never touch."
She stared at him. "I am not a bargaining chip."
Lucien cupped her face gently. "You are my daughter. And that is exactly why you are powerful."
Before she could respond, the balcony doors opened again.
The music swelled.
And the air changed.
Amélie felt it before she saw him—the shift, the weight, the sudden stillness that followed his presence. When she turned, her breath caught in her throat.
Vittorio Russo walked into the room like he belonged to every shadow.
He was taller than she expected, broad-shouldered, dressed in a dark suit that looked less like fashion and more like armor. His face was carved with discipline—sharp jaw, unreadable mouth—and a faint scar traced the edge of his cheekbone, as if warning the world not to underestimate him.
His eyes found hers.
And held.
There was no smile. No polite mask. Just a slow, assessing gaze that made her feel seen in a way that unsettled her deeply.
"So," he said, his Italian accent rough against the elegance of the room, "this is Paris' crown jewel."
Amélie lifted her chin. "And you must be the man who mistakes cruelty for strength."
A flicker of something crossed his eyes—surprise, perhaps. Or interest.
Lucien chuckled lightly. "You see? She doesn't disappoint."
Vittorio inclined his head slightly. "Nor does she fear."
"I reserve fear for things that deserve it," Amélie replied.
Their eyes locked again.
Something dangerous sparked between them.
Hatred, yes—but something else, too. Something sharp and undeniable.
"The alliance is temporary," Vittorio said, turning his attention to Lucien. "But necessary."
"Agreed," Lucien replied. "There is a third syndicate moving through Marseille. They threaten us both."
Vittorio's jaw tightened. "I will deal with them."
"You will not act alone," Lucien said calmly.
A muscle ticked in Vittorio's cheek. "We'll see."
Amélie watched them carefully, realizing something chilling in that moment.
These men did not trust each other.
And she was standing in the middle of a war pretending to be a dinner party.
The evening dragged on with forced smiles and sharp conversations disguised as diplomacy. Amélie played her role flawlessly—graceful, composed, untouchable. Yet she could feel Vittorio's gaze on her from across the room, heavy and unyielding.
She hated that it made her pulse quicken.
When she finally excused herself, exhaustion weighed on her bones. The château corridors were quiet as she moved toward her wing, heels echoing softly against stone.
Her room door closed behind her with a soft click.
She exhaled.
For the first time all night, she allowed herself to breathe.
She removed her jewelry slowly, her thoughts spiraling. Vittorio Russo was nothing like she imagined. Not reckless. Not loud. He was controlled. Calculated.
Dangerous.
The lights flickered.
Amélie froze.
Before she could move, the door burst open.
Black-clad figures flooded the room.
A hand clamped over her mouth. Another gripped her arms.
She struggled, her heart slamming violently against her ribs, but they were too strong.
"Quiet," one hissed. "If you scream, you die."
Terror flooded her veins as she was dragged toward the balcony doors.
Outside, the night swallowed her whole.
As they pulled her into a waiting vehicle, one thought burned through her fear—
My father will tear the world apart for this.
But far away, as alarms began to scream through the château and Lucien Laurent's fury shook Paris to its core…
Another man was already moving.
And Vittorio Russo did not intend to let the princess die.