THE HEIR VS FEMALE CEO

Chapter 4 – The First Move

The morning after Matthieu handed him the logistics empire, Sébastien stood at the floor-to-ceiling windows of his new office. It occupied the top floor of the Marceau Building, a sleek tower that hummed with activity below.

The city stretched out before him, alive, unpredictable, and for the first time in years, he felt like he was standing above it instead of beneath it.

He turned to the mahogany desk, where a folder sat waiting. Inside was everything Matthieu’s people had gathered on Luc Tremblay: his business holdings, shell companies, debt structures, and a list of his “quiet” investments.

One, in particular, caught Sébastien’s attention, Tremblay International Freight, a mid-sized shipping company dependent on the very ports Sébastien now controlled.

He closed the folder slowly, his mind already moving several steps ahead.

By noon, he was in a strategy meeting with Alain Renaud, the hard-eyed CEO who had been running the logistics group for years. Alain had a reputation for getting results and for playing rough when needed.

“We can freeze him out,” Alain said after reviewing the file. “Cut his access to our terminals under the guise of ‘security audits’ and ‘operational reviews.’ That alone will strangle his shipping schedule.”

Sébastien nodded. “Do it. But not all at once. Slow enough that he won’t see the full picture until it’s too late.”

Alain’s grin was sharp. “You’ve done this before.”

“Not exactly,” Sébastien said, his tone even. “But I’ve been watching long enough to know how the game is played.”

That afternoon, the first restriction went into effect. One of Luc’s shipments, a high-value electronics consignment, was “delayed” due to a sudden customs inspection. Another was rerouted to a port two hundred kilometers away, eating into his profit margins.

By the end of the week, Luc would be bleeding cash. By the end of the month, he’d be begging for answers.

That evening, Sébastien sat alone in a quiet corner of Le Rivage, a glass of bourbon in hand. He wasn’t here for company. He was here to think.

The satisfaction of his actions wasn’t about revenge, not entirely. It was about taking control, about finally moving the pieces instead of being one.

Still, a part of him couldn’t deny the dark thrill at the thought of Luc’s face when he realized what was happening.

His phone buzzed. A message from an unknown number: You’ve made your first enemy. Be careful, he doesn’t fight clean.

He stared at the screen, scanning the crowded room. No one seemed out of place, but he felt eyes on him all the same. The next day, Alain reported back.

“Luc’s called three times demanding explanations,” he said. “He’s angry, but he still thinks it’s a coincidence. By the time he realizes otherwise, he’ll have no way to stop it.”

Sébastien allowed himself a small nod. “Good. Keep the pressure steady. No mistakes.”

Alain hesitated. “There’s one more thing. We picked up chatter that Luc’s been talking to someone, a player we haven’t identified yet. Whoever it is… they’re not local.”

That night, Sébastien returned to the Moreau residence, not to stay, but to collect the last of his personal belongings. Jenna was there, pacing in the living room.

“You can’t just leave,” she said the moment he walked in. “We’re married. We can fix this.”

Sébastien looked at her, really looked at her, and saw not the woman he’d once loved, but a stranger clinging to a life that no longer existed.

“There’s nothing to fix,” he said quietly. “Not anymore.”

Her eyes hardened. “You think you can walk away from me? From my family?”

“I already have.”

As he turned to leave, her phone lit up on the coffee table. For the briefest second, he saw the name on the screen. Luc Tremblay.

She moved to grab it, but he was already at the door. Two nights later, Sébastien received a call from Alain at an uncharacteristically late hour.

“We’ve got a problem,” Alain said. “One of our warehouses on the east docks, it’s on fire. Arson. Witnesses say they saw Tremblay’s men.”

Sébastien’s voice was calm, but inside, his pulse quickened. “Is anyone hurt?”

“No casualties. But the shipment inside was worth millions. And here’s the kicker, someone tipped the press. The story will be everywhere by morning.”

Sébastien walked to the window of his penthouse, the city lights cold and distant. He knew what this was. Luc’s message had been delivered.

But Sébastien Moreau wasn’t in the business of taking punches without returning them tenfold, His phone buzzed again, this time with a single, grainy photograph sent from an untraceable number. It was Jenna. Sitting in the back of a car, With a man Sébastien didn’t recognize.