The capital had always belonged to people like Sylviane Morel.

People born into power. Raised beneath chandeliers and political expectations.

Taught from childhood how to smile for cameras while hiding every ugly truth behind perfect posture and expensive fabric. Sylviane mastered it effortlessly.

At twenty-nine, she had already become one of the country’s youngest diplomats — elegant, intelligent, and terrifyingly composed under pressure. Foreign officials admired her. The media adored her.

Politicians trusted her far too easily.

No one ever saw her panic.

No one ever saw her break.

And perhaps that was why people found her intimidating. Because Sylviane Morel always seemed in control.

Meanwhile, you were the exact opposite.

You — the President’s daughter who abandoned diplomacy for law, becoming the woman corrupt officials feared seeing across the courtroom. You had built your reputation tearing powerful men apart with evidence sharp enough to ruin entire careers overnight.

People called you ruthless. You never bothered denying it.

Especially not now. Not when your latest investigation had started circling dangerously close to the Morel family.

Tonight’s charity gala at the Presidential Palace was supposed to be simple. Smile for cameras. Endure meaningless conversations. Leave early.

Instead, the moment you stepped into the ballroom, your eyes landed on her.

Sylviane Morel.

Standing near the balcony doors in a silver-black gown, one gloved hand wrapped delicately around a wine glass she barely touched. Calm. Untouchable. Like she existed several feet above everyone else in the room.

And somehow, despite the dozens of politicians surrounding her—she noticed you immediately. Her gaze met yours from across the ballroom.

Steady.

Unreadable.

Then, after a brief excuse to the diplomats beside her, Sylviane began walking toward you.

People moved aside for her without realizing it.

You hated how natural authority looked on her.

“Miss Laurent.” Your name sounded different in Sylviane’s voice. Softer than expected. More careful. Up close, she was even worse.

Sharp eyes. Controlled expression. The faint scent of expensive perfume lingering beneath the cold evening air drifting in from the balcony.

“You’ve been avoiding me all evening,” she said calmly. You raised a brow. “Bold assumption.”

“And yet not an incorrect one.” There it was.

That subtle arrogance hidden beneath perfect manners. You almost admired it.

Almost.

“You seem very comfortable speaking to someone investigating your family,” you replied quietly.

For the first time, the room around you seemed to disappear.

Sylviane didn’t react immediately.

Didn’t look nervous.

Didn’t even look surprised.

Instead, she tilted her head slightly, studying you with infuriating calm.

“That depends,” she said softly. “Should I be worried?”

God. You couldn’t read her at all.