Lila's POV
The sky was an overcast gray, the kind that warned of storms without quite committing. It matched the weight in Lila Rousseau's chest as she stood at the edge of the cliff, overlooking the churning waters of Étretat's jagged shoreline. Wind tangled her red hair like a thousand restless hands, and somewhere beneath the roar of the sea, she imagined she could still hear her father's voice.
"Never let them see your fear, ma petite tigresse." (Little tigress)
The urn in her hands felt heavier than it should. Her fingers curled tightly around it, nails digging into the cold metal. She hadn't cried during the funeral. Hadn't spoken when the men in black suits with weapons hidden beneath their coats bowed their heads in reverence. But here, standing where her father once brought her as a child—to teach her silence, to teach her steel—she finally let her walls crack.
"This is the only time I'll mourn you out loud," she whispered. "Because after this...I become you."
She twisted the lid and lifted the urn, letting the ashes drift out in slow, reluctant spirals. The wind snatched them like secrets, hurling them into the sea.
Gone.
Jacques Rousseau, the most feared man in France's underworld, had finally vanished into the tide. And Lila… was no longer just his daughter.
She was La Rousseau now.
---
The gates of Château Rousseau creaked open as her black car crawled up the long gravel path. The estate loomed ahead—cold stone walls covered in creeping vines, iron balconies curling like claws. Roses lined the walkway, their petals dark crimson, almost black, as if they too had been soaked in blood over the years.
She stepped out, greeted by stiff nods and suspicious glances. The men had never looked her in the eye before. Now, they watched her like she was a loaded gun they weren't sure would fire. Good for them.
A familiar figure leaned against the archway—tall, broad-shouldered, and dressed in gray. His expression unreadable, as always.
"Matthieu." she called.
"Little Tigress." he replied. The name was a gentle slap, a reminder and a warning.
She walked past him without flinching. "Did they clean out his office?"
"Not yet. Most of them are waiting to see if you'll cry in the chair."
Lila scoffed. "They'll be waiting a long time."
Matthieu didn't smile, but his eyes softened. Slightly. "You shouldn't have scattered the ashes alone."
"I needed to, to remind myself of what I have to do."
He followed her into the grand hallway, where shadows clung to the walls like gossip. Paintings of her ancestors glared down at her, men with rifles and women with poisoned smiles. Every corner of this place breathed power—and danger.
She paused at the staircase as if suddenly realizing something.
"They don't respect me." she said.
"They don't have to. They just need to follow orders."
She turned, lifting her chin. "And if they don't?"
"You do what your father did." Matthieu's voice dropped to something colder. "You remind them who runs the Rousseau Syndicate."
Lila said nothing, just started up the stairs. Her boots echoed like thunder across marble floors. She'd never be her father. But she didn't need to be. She'd be something else—something unexpected.
---
By nightfall, the estate had quieted down. Most of the men had retreated to their quarters, murmuring about her return like it was a ghost story.
Lila sat alone in the old study, feet propped on the desk where her father once planned deals and executions alike. The leather chair still smelled like his cologne—pepper and smoke. Her fingers traced the edges of the carved wood.
There were folders scattered on the desk—intel from their allies, locations of enemies, whispers of unrest. Her name appeared too often in the wrong columns.
"She's young."
"She's untested."
"She's a girl."
"She's weak"
She closed the file slowly. "You'd think they've never met me."
"You're not what they fear," Matthieu said from the doorway. "They fear the men who'll come for you now."
She didn't jump—his voice rarely startled her anymore. Not after all his intense training sessions.
"Who exactly is coming?" she asked, without looking up.
Matthieu stepped inside, setting a glass of something dark and dangerous beside her elbow. "The ones who waited for your father to die. The ones who hate you because you didn't die with him."
Her lips twitched. "That's poetic. Did you write that down or—?"
"There's talk of movement in Lyon. Some of the Dufort boys. Small players. But there's someone else..."
She looked up, catching the change in his tone. "Who?"
Matthieu hesitated. That in itself was worrying. Matthieu never hesitated.
"We don't know yet. A new face. Doesn't report to anyone we've clocked."
Her brows furrowed. "Freelancer?"
"Maybe. Maybe just suicidal."
A pause.
"Do we have eyes on him?"
"We will."
"Soon?"
Matthieu met her gaze. "Already on it."
---
What Lila didn't know was that somewhere across town, in the back of a smoky jazz bar where money changed hands and secrets flowed smoother than whiskey, a man sat with a devil-may-care grin.
He leaned back in his chair, nursing a drink he hadn't paid for. His dark curls were tousled like he'd just gotten out of bed—or someone's bed. And his sharp eyes flicked lazily over the file in his hands.
Lila Rousseau.
Age: 22.
Daughter of Jacques Rousseau. Only child?: debatable.
Recently inherited full control of the Rousseau Syndicate.
Status: Unconfirmed threat.
He smirked and tapped her photo with two fingers.
"Well, well, mademoiselle. Let's see if you're as fragile as they say."
His name?
Jace Durant.
Affiliation: The Shadows.
Mission: Infiltrate. Observe. Report.
…Or completely and totally ignore orders, because rules were boring and Jace had always preferred a little chaos.
He folded the file shut and whistled lowly. "Might actually be fun this time."
---
Back at the estate, Lila stood at her window, watching the rose garden sway in the wind. She had called for a meeting scheduled for the next day. The need to set them straight humming in her veins but it wouldn't be easy, she could feel it coming—the storm, the eyes, the blood. Her father had once ruled with an iron fist. She would rule with something sharper.
And if they thought the redhead at the gates of power would crumble?
They'd forgotten one thing.
Tigresses don't ask for thrones.
They take them.