CHAPTER 244: CHAPTER 245 SURPRISE GUEST

I didn’t know what else to say. ‘Wow. That’s... a lot. Thanks, Mr Marchetti.’

‘Fabrizio. And I should be the one thanking you. Since you’ll be carrying the line, I think it’s only fair you profit from it, beyond just a salary. Hence the joint venture proposal. Have you given it any thought?’

‘I have. Still undecided. You know I already have my studio in Skyline.’

‘I do. But there’s no law saying a designer can only run one. If it’s the workload you’re worried about, I’ll handle the admin, payroll, HR, the dull stuff. You focus on the design. We can keep it small to start. Say, ten million seed capital. That’s five million euros for a fifty per cent stake. With the sales you’re pulling in from your current studio, it’s hardly a gamble.’

Before I could respond, a loud, deliberate click came from Jean-Baptiste’s corner.

‘They’re really staking everything on some nobody? That’s desperate.’

He wasn’t whispering.

Everyone heard.

The presenter carried on regardless, switching to slides of my past collections.

Each one filled the screen—sketches, colour palettes, gemstone specs.

The murmuring slowly quietened.

I saw heads begin to nod.

Fabrizio leaned in. ‘Want to say a few words?’

His scent was suddenly too close.

I shifted in my seat.

‘I’d rather let the work speak for itself.’

The next slide brought up an old piece.

Jean-Baptiste’s signature sprawled pretentiously in the corner.

‘This one’s from a former designer,’ the presenter said, stony-faced. ‘Compare it with Miss Vance’s. The difference speaks for itself. We’ve chosen the right lead for this year’s line, and we’re excited to see what comes next.’

Jean-Baptiste flushed a mottled pink.

Before the next brand took the mic, the host returned to the stage.

‘Good news: we’ve got a special guest joining us later today.’

‘Who is it?’ someone asked from the back.

‘Monsieur Ashton Laurent. A major investor from Skyline City, with stakes in several French businesses as well. He confirmed just minutes ago that he’ll be joining us.’

Chairs straightened.

Even the dozing ones sat up.

The presentation resumed.

Fabrizio caught my eye, mouthing, ‘Mr Laurent’s coming?’

‘Apparently,’ I said, shrugging. ‘News to me.’

I picked up my phone and typed quickly.

Me: [Why didn’t you tell me you were coming here?]

Ashton: [Last-minute decision. Wanted to see you.]

Me: [Where are you now?]

Ashton: [Outside.]

I glanced at the doors.

They were still shut.

Jean-Baptiste cleared his throat, loud and pointed. ‘Weren’t phones banned during the presentation?’

Fabrizio answered before I could. ‘There’s no such rule.’

Jean-Baptiste snorted. ‘Maybe not officially, but it’s understood. Phones mean photos. Photos mean leaks.’

His eyes landed on me.

My phone was still in my hand.

Everyone caught the implication.

I locked the screen and placed it face down on the table.

‘I didn’t take any photos. My phone’s silent, I wasn’t disturbing anyone. You, on the other hand, just interrupted the presentation.’

‘You say you didn’t take photos,’ he sneered. ‘And we’re just supposed to believe that?’

‘You can check my phone,’ I said evenly. ‘If there’s a single photo from today, I’ll apologise publicly. If not, you apologise, and prepare for a defamation lawsuit.’

Jean-Baptiste opened his mouth—

‘Excuse me!’ the host interrupted, staring past the rear doors. ‘Our honoured guest has arrived.’

All heads turned.

Ashton walked in, suited as always, expression unreadable.

Two assistants followed, one step behind.

He strode past Jean-Baptiste, then paused.

‘I’m the one she was messaging,’ he said, voice low but carrying. ‘Mirabelle Vance is my wife.’

Jean-Baptiste went crimson.

He shot a desperate glance at the man beside him, who refused to meet his eyes.

Ashton had already moved on.

He reached my side, took my wrist, and pulled me to my feet.

The host approached, smiling far too widely, hand outstretched.

Ashton ignored it.

He scanned the room.

‘I heard good things about this panel, which is why I dropped in. But clearly the praises were overstated. My wife came here to learn, to exchange ideas with what are, supposedly, some of the industry’s best. She didn’t come to be falsely accused without evidence.’

He took my hand and started walking.

The host’s voice rose behind us, panicked. ‘Mr Laurent, I must apologise—’

The rest was cut off as the door swung shut.

‘I might’ve wanted to stay,’ I said, half-grumbling.

Ashton didn’t pause. ‘I know the organiser. They’ll send over the slides later if you like.’

The look he gave me held enough heat to scorch.

If we hadn’t been surrounded by people, he’d have kissed me breathless.

Fabrizio caught up at the lift, slightly out of breath. ‘Mr Laurent, wait, please.’

Ashton turned. ‘Yes, Mr Marchetti?’

‘Why don’t I take you both to lunch? A welcome to Paris, and to smooth things over.’

‘Kind of you, but no, thank you. I just landed, and the jet lag’s kicking in. If possible, I’d like the rest of the day off for my wife.’

Fabrizio hesitated, then nodded. ‘Of course.’

‘Good.’ Ashton’s mouth twitched. ‘I sleep better with her beside me.’

I gave his palm a warning pinch.

He squeezed back.

Then he pulled an envelope from his jacket. ‘Our wedding’s on the sixth of June. We’d love for you to come.’

Fabrizio took the invitation. ‘I’ll be there. Congratulations.’

Once we were out of earshot, I turned to Ashton. ‘What was that?’

‘What was what?’

‘That whole “I sleep better with my wife there” thing.’

‘It’s true.’

‘It’s also mortifying. He’s my boss. You can’t just talk about sleeping with me in front of him.’

Ashton made a low, dismissive sound. ‘I don’t like him. There’s something off about that guy.’

‘You’ve said that before.’ I frowned. ‘And where did you even get that invitation? I didn’t know they were printed yet.’

‘I had it done for him before I left Skyline,’ he said smugly.

‘You’re insane.’

‘Insanely in love with you.’

‘And increasingly cheesy.’ I shook my head, trying not to grin. ‘Have you been secretly bingeing teen romcoms?’

We stepped out of the Valmont & Cie building.

A cherry-red convertible waited at the kerb.

I stared. ‘That’s yours?’