Chapter 3: The Man Called Saint
The man stepped out of the car just as Elara emerged from the notary's office.
Tall. Broad-shouldered. Dressed in a charcoal trench coat and polished leather gloves, he moved with the kind of slow, deliberate confidence that spoke of power—cultivated, inherited, and sharpened like a blade.
He took off his sunglasses, revealing eyes as pale as ice.
"Elara Rousseau-Delacroix," he said in a voice both elegant and cold. "You have your mother's lips. And your father's arrogance."
She didn't flinch. "And you must be Adrien Saint-Pierre. The cousin who believes inheritance is a privilege, not a right."
He smiled faintly. "Inheritance is war, ma chère. And you've just stepped onto the battlefield unarmed."
She looked him over, memorizing every detail. He was beautiful in the way marble statues were—flawless, emotionless, and made to endure. But his smile was pure calculation.
"I'm not here to fight," she said.
"But you will," he replied, stepping closer. "Because you've walked into a legacy built on blood. And blood always demands payment."
He offered his arm.
"Come. Let us discuss your little... surprise appearance. Over dinner. You'll need to understand the rules of this family if you plan to stay alive."
She eyed him warily, then shook her head.
"I'll make my own rules."
She turned to leave.
He didn't follow.
But as she stepped into her waiting car, her phone buzzed again.
> Unknown Number:
You don't belong here, bastard daughter. Turn back now—or you won't live long enough to claim your crown.
She swallowed the panic and looked out at the Paris skyline.
Lucien would be furious when he found out.
But Elara had made her choice.
No more running.
---
Meanwhile, in New York
Lucien Leontis stood on the balcony of their Manhattan penthouse, phone pressed to his ear.
"I want full surveillance on Elara's travel history," he said tightly. "She's gone silent, and she lied to me. Said she was visiting a supplier in Chicago. But she's not."
The line crackled.
"Sir… she landed in Paris. Two days ago."
Lucien's hand clenched the railing.
Paris.
Delacroix.
The ghosts had finally come for her.
And this time, he wouldn't let her face them alone.
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