Chapter 1: The Billionaire's Daughter
The sleek black Bentley pulled up to the entrance of the Moreau estate, a sprawling mansion nestled in the hills above San Francisco. Reporters huddled outside the wrought iron gates, flashes of their cameras reflecting off the polished hood. The car door opened, and Alina Moreau stepped out—flawless in her designer coat, her long auburn hair swept neatly over one shoulder.
Inside, the estate smelled of roses and old money. Servants nodded respectfully as she passed, but their eyes rarely met hers. She wasn't rude—just unreachable. To them, Alina Moreau was the golden child of luxury, daughter of Maxim Moreau, CEO of Moreau Jewels—one of the most prestigious jewelry empires in the world.
She barely spoke as she made her way to her father's study. Her heels clicked against marble floors that had never known scuff marks.
"You're late," Maxim said without looking up from his desk when she entered.
Alina sat, crossing her legs. "The charity event ran over. I stayed behind to help the staff clean up."
He snorted. "You were not hired to sweep floors. Your job is to be seen. Polished. Strategic."
She clenched her jaw. Same speech, different day.
"You need to take your role more seriously, Alina. Investors want a competent successor, not a philanthropic daydreamer."
Alina's voice was calm, but firm. "I'm not a puppet, Father."
"No," he said, finally looking up. "You're a Moreau. That means duty, not rebellion."
She left the study without another word. Behind her composed expression was a storm of frustration. She had lived her whole life in the spotlight, rehearsing every word, curating every move. She longed for something real—something untouched by status or expectations.
That night, as the estate quieted under velvet skies, Alina stood on the balcony outside her bedroom, looking toward the dark outline of the distant mountains. A memory drifted into her mind—of her mother, long passed, once telling her that real peace could only be found in wild places.
The next morning, Alina did something no one expected.
She packed a bag with boots, a jacket, a water bottle, and a simple change of clothes. She left behind her phone, her credit cards, her security detail. She scribbled a note: Taking some time to think. Don't come looking.
By noon, she was gone.
Far from the manicured hedges and diamond vaults, the Sierra Nevada mountains offered solitude. Alina hiked through pine groves and narrow trails, savoring the scent of earth and leaves, the sting of cold air on her cheeks.
She smiled—truly smiled—for the first time in months.
She didn't notice the loose gravel beneath her feet until it was too late.
Her boot slipped.
She gasped, arms flailing.
The cliff edge gave way.
There was a scream—brief, sharp—then silence as her body vanished into the forest below.