Chapter 5: Invasion
The scent of coffee should not have been there.
Océane—no, Stephanie, she had to be Stephanie—woke with the ghost of a kiss on her cheek and the echo of her real name in the air. She’d spent half the night staring at the ceiling, the feel of Veronica’s thumb on her jawline seared into her memory. She’d finally fallen into a fitful sleep just before dawn, the plan to regroup, to reassess, her only comfort.
But now, coffee. Rich and dark. And something else… the faint, expensive trace of neroli.
Her eyes snapped open. She pulled on a silk robe, the motion silent, and padded out of the bedroom.
Veronica Barlowe was lounging at her small kitchen table, legs crossed, as if she owned the space. She wore a sharp, tailored pantsuit in charcoal grey, a cup of coffee from Océane’s own mug in her hand. Spread out on the table between a stack of mail and a half-read novel were several files. Océane’s files. The ones she kept locked in a discreet case at the back of her closet.
“You’re out of milk,” Veronica said, not looking up from the document she was perusing. Her tone was casual, conversational. “I take mine with a splash. Had to drink it black. Builds character.”
Stephanie’s blood went cold, then hot. The invasion was so absolute, so casual, it stole her breath. Her gaze darted from Veronica’s placid face to the papers in her hand. On top of the stack was a genealogical chart, the Moreau de Fonteneau family crest embossed at the top.
“You,” Stephanie breathed, the word a tremor of pure fury.
Veronica finally looked up, her green eyes bright with amusement. “Me. I thought we should talk. Your story last night was so compelling, but I felt there were… gaps.”
The rage was a white-hot wire. It bypassed all thought, all training. Stephanie strode forward, her hand swinging in a sharp, open-handed arc aimed at Veronica’s smug, beautiful face.
It never connected.
Veronica’s hand shot up, effortless, and caught Stephanie’s wrist an inch from her cheek. Her grip was like iron, cool and unyielding. She didn’t even flinch.
“Ah, ah, ah,” Veronica chided, her voice a low hum. She stood, unfolding her height until she loomed over Stephany, their bodies close in the small kitchen. “Keep your hands to yourself, pickney.”
The Patwa word, the one she’d taught her, felt like a violation all its own.
Stephanie tried to pull back, but Veronica’s grip tightened, just for a second, a silent show of strength that made Stephanie’s bones ache. Then, with a slight, almost contemptuous push, Veronica released her, sending Stephanie stumbling back a step into the counter.
“Now,” Veronica said, smoothing down the front of her jacket. “Let’s talk.”
She picked up the genealogical chart, tapping the crest with a perfectly manicured finger. “Moreau de Fonteneau. Old money. The kind that smells of vaults and dead ancestors. Your great-grandfather had quite the relationship with the Vichy government, didn’t he? Very profitable. And your father… his current investments in certain private military contractors would make for fascinating reading in the Financial Times.” She dropped the paper. It fluttered back to the table. “You’re not here to bring down my firm, Océane. You’re here to protect your family’s legacy. To stop me from uncovering where the money really comes from.”
Stephanie said nothing. She just leaned against the counter, her robe feeling flimsy, her entire identity stripped bare. The game was over. Heiress and spy, both exposed.
Veronica stepped closer, until the scent of her was all Stephanie could breathe. She reached out and, with a startling gentleness, tucked a strand of Stephanie‘s long hair behind her ear. Her fingers trailed down the line of her jaw, a mocking echo of the night before.
“The question is,” Veronica murmured, her voice dropping to a intimate whisper, “what do we do now? I have everything. You have nothing. That’s a very uncomfortable position for a girl like you to be in.”
She picked up her bag, sliding the most damning of the files inside. “I’ll be taking this. Consider it an insurance policy.”
She walked to the door, then paused, looking back. The morning sun caught the gold in her afro.
“Get dressed, Océane. We have a board meeting at ten. And do try to wear something that doesn’t look like you bought it with a black card you hate yourself for using.” A slow, knowing smile. “I’ll see you at the office.”