THE HEIR VS FEMALE CEO

Chapter 5 – The Unknown Player

The photo burned in Sébastien’s mind long after the message disappeared from his phone.

Jenna, in the back of a black luxury sedan, her head bent toward a man whose face was shadowed, but there was something in his posture, the confidence in the way he sat, that told Sébastien this was not just some casual acquaintance. Whoever he was, he wasn’t ordinary.

By dawn, Sébastien was in his private office, a steaming mug of coffee beside him and the city still half-asleep outside the glass walls. Alain Renaud arrived ten minutes later, carrying a thin, unmarked folder.

“This is all we could pull from traffic cameras near the Royal District,” Alain said, sliding it across the desk. “The car belongs to a holding company registered in Luxembourg. Completely clean on paper.”

Sébastien flipped through the grainy images, the same black sedan at various street corners, always with tinted windows. “What about the man?” he asked

Alain shook his head. “Facial recognition came up blank. Either he’s new to the scene or he’s been scrubbed from every database we can access.”

That last part made Sébastien’s jaw tighten. People who were “scrubbed” weren’t amateurs. They were professionals, ghosts who moved in and out of high-stakes circles without leaving a trace.

“Whoever he is,” Alain continued, “he’s not here for small deals. My guess? He’s the money behind Luc Tremblay’s sudden confidence.”

Sébastien leaned back in his chair, the leather creaking. “Then we cut off the money before it roots itself.”

“How?”

Sébastien’s gaze shifted to the city beyond the glass. “We make him visible. And then we make him toxic.”

That afternoon, he made his first move, Through an anonymous intermediary, Sébastien leaked a whisper to one of the city’s most trusted financial journalists: rumors of a mysterious foreign investor quietly buying up struggling mid-tier companies through a local proxy. No names, no proof, just enough smoke to make people start looking for the fire.

By the next morning, the story was making the rounds in corporate circles. Deals slowed. Questions multiplied. And Luc Tremblay’s calls to certain business partners began going unanswered.

But Sébastien knew this was only the opening gambit. Whoever the man was, he wouldn’t fold easily.

That evening, he attended a small, invitation-only dinner at Isabelle Duroc’s riverfront penthouse. The guest list was a mix of corporate leaders and political figures, the type of gathering where one overheard conversation could be worth millions.

Isabelle greeted him with her usual poised smile. “You’ve been making ripples,” she said as she handed him a glass of wine.

“Only ripples?” he asked dryly.

Her eyes glimmered. “For now. But I hear someone doesn’t appreciate them.” She tilted her head toward the far corner of the room. There he was, The man from the photograph.

Up close, he was in his late forties, impeccably dressed, with a presence that made the air around him seem heavier. He spoke with quiet authority to a small group, every so often scanning the room as though mapping the people within it.

When his gaze landed on Sébastien, something unspoken passed between them, a recognition, even though they had never met.

Isabelle murmured, “Name’s Markus Varga. Eastern European. Built his fortune in energy and logistics. Not the kind of man you want as an enemy.”

Sébastien’s reply was simple. “Then I won’t be his enemy.”

Isabelle raised an eyebrow. “I’ll be his problem.”

When Markus eventually approached, it was with the easy confidence of someone who didn’t chase people, they came to him.

“Monsieur Moreau,” he said in a smooth, accented voice. “I’ve heard… interesting things.”

“I’m sure you have,” Sébastien replied evenly.

Markus studied him for a long moment, then smiled faintly. “You strike me as a man who understands the value of alliances.”

“I understand their cost,” Sébastien said.

A flicker of something, amusement, maybe respect, passed over Markus’s face before he inclined his head and moved on.

Later that night, as Sébastien left the penthouse, a black envelope was tucked under the wiper of his car. No name, no return address, just a single business card inside. On one side, an embossed crest he didn’t recognize, On the other, a time and place: Friday. Midnight. Pier 17.

By the time he reached his penthouse, Alain was waiting inside with urgent news. “We just intercepted something you need to see.” He handed Sébastien a flash drive. “Security footage from one of our warehouses. Last night.”

Sébastien loaded it on his laptop. The grainy black-and-white video showed three figures moving through the shadows, fast, precise, military in their movements. One of them stepped briefly into the light. Jenna.