Chaos in Heels

The Moreau family dining hall was a testament to old money and refined taste. Crystal chandeliers hung from ornately carved ceilings, their light dancing off the polished marble floors. White linen tablecloths draped over mahogany tables, each adorned with centrepieces of fresh lilies and roses. The room buzzed with the gentle hum of classical music and polite conversation.

Deja stood by the buffet table like she was casing a scene in a crime drama. She wore a structured emerald green jumpsuit that hugged her curves just right, with an off-shoulder neckline that said, Yes, I'm extra—what about it? Gold statement earrings caught the light every time she moved, and her stilettos clicked like judgment across the marble. Her afro was styled into a bun. The glossy lip? A statement. The nails? Talons. Slaying all around.

She poked skeptically at what appeared to be some kind of pâté on a silver platter, her nose wrinkling in distaste.

"Why rich folks always wanna eat food that look like it already been chewed and spit back up? This look like prison mousse." She bypassed the pâté entirely and grabbed a mini quiche with the silent hope it wouldn't betray her taste buds. "The trick," came a silky voice beside her, "is to drink enough champagne that you forget what you're eating."

She turned, already halfway rolling her eyes—but stopped. James Lee. Fine as hell. Tailored navy suit, jawline sharp enough to commit crimes, and a smile that looked like it had broken hearts in five time zones.

"Mr. Lee!" Deja exclaimed, genuinely surprised. "I remember you from the gala."

"Please, call me James," he said, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he smiled. "And I'm flattered you remember me, Deja. Our conversation was... interrupted last time."

"By my fiancé," Deja said flatly, making air quotes around the word "fiancé."

James chuckled, leaning slightly closer. "Yes, quite dramatically if I recall. How's that going, by the way?"

Deja snorted into her champagne. "About as well as you'd expect a merger-based relationship with zero chemistry and a man who acts like I killed his dog. So... delightful."

"Arranged?" James raised a brow. "Didn't think the Zuo's or Moreau's were that old-school."

"More like aggressively encouraged until I said 'fine' just to shut everybody up. But semantics, right?"

James leaned in just a bit more. "You don't seem too into the whole future-wife-of-a-tycoon thing."

"Oh, I'm thrilled," she said, flashing a bright, sarcastic smile. "But I'm also a firm believer in keeping my options open."

Deja considered James for a moment. He was attractive, charming, and clearly interested. She remembered her villain arc—creating discord would certainly help push everyone away, especially if she flirted with Ren's business rival. Twenty million dollars was a powerful motivator.

James's grin widened. "Well, in that case—"

"There you are, Deja," Dominique's saccharine voice cut through their conversation like a knife. She glided toward them in a figure-hugging ivory gown that contrasted beautifully with her brown skin. Her hair was arranged in an elaborate updo covered with pearl pins, and her makeup was flawless—subtle yet enhancing her naturally striking features.

"Mr. Lee," Dominique acknowledged with a dazzling smile. "How lovely to see you again. I hope my cousin isn't boring you with her... unique perspectives."

James's smile didn't waver. "Actually, I find Deja's perspectives refreshing. Honesty is such a rare commodity in our circles."

Dominique's smile tightened like it was held together with dental floss. "Yes, well. She's certainly been... honest lately." She turned to Deja with a condescending tilt of the head. "Darling, are you sure you should be drinking champagne? You do get a little... dramatic after a glass or two."