Chapter 172
Her stilettos had barely taken two steps when an elusive scent drifted into her nostrils.
Sebastian Valdemar paused mid-stride, his sharp gaze flashing with icy intensity.
"Mr. Valdemar~" Fiona Valentine's saccharine voice floated from behind.
He turned, the knife-edge crease of his suit trousers catching the light. "Miss Valentine."
The formal address made her fingers twitch.
The humiliation from the gala still burned like a splinter in her heart. Her clutch creaked under her grip, nails nearly piercing the leather. That bitch Evelyn Roland had ruined everything.
"Did I... look ridiculous tonight?" She lifted her tear-glazed eyes.
"An unfortunate mishap." His tone remained detached.
The rare consolation sent warmth through her chest. If he'd lowered himself to comfort her, did that mean...?
His chiseled profile looked even more striking under the neon lights, the sharp line of his Adam's apple disappearing into his starched collar. Her breath hitched. She would claim the title of Mrs. Valdemar—no matter what.
"Excuse me." Sebastian turned away.
The café window reflected an empty seat. His brow furrowed as he suppressed an inexplicable irritation.
——
The Valdemar Group's penthouse overlooked the city's glittering skyline.
"Enter."
Theodore Ashcroft stepped inside. "Château Laurent is officially listed. Every major player is watching."
A fountain pen slashed across documents with surgical precision. "Prepare the acquisition proposal."
The pen stilled abruptly. Images flashed through his mind—Evelyn's recent meetings with that bartender. What game was that woman playing?
——
Three days later, Château Laurent.
Black-suited guards stood like sentinels as a crimson carpet unfurled toward the vineyards.
A Maserati and Porsche arrived in succession. Evelyn emerged just as Sebastian's probing gaze locked onto her.
So she did show up.
His license plate registered in her peripheral vision, but she didn't break stride. The estate surpassed expectations—cobblestone paths led to oak-barrel cellars, while automated irrigation systems arced silver over the vines.
Her fingers trailed along stainless steel fermentation tanks, the cold metal making her eyes narrow. German engineering, fully automated production—this operation could dominate half of A City's wine market.
In the oak aging room, a 1982 Lafite glowed amber under spotlights. Evelyn's lips curved. This deal would be hers.