Chapter 75: Chapter 75
Fleur stood at the center of the cavernous, half-finished skeletal frame of the new mega-mall, her eyes narrowing with sharp precision.
Around her, a dozen assistants hovered nervously, tablets in hand, capturing every command that left her lips. She mapped out the intricate design schematics with an authoritative breeze, but as she checked her watch, a familiar, suffocating weight settled back onto her chest.
Her schedule was packed to the absolute brim—a deliberate, desperate cage she had built to keep her mind from wandering.
Yet, deep down, she knew the relentless pace was a fragile facade. No matter how many blueprints she memorized, she couldn’t purge the intoxicating, scorching memory of her husband from her senses.
Christian Wayne still ruled her thoughts like a hidden curse. She hated how she still had no power to escape it.
Turning sharply on her heel to face her team, she masked her inner turmoil with a crisp, commanding tone. "Are there any questions on the layout revisions?"
"No, ma’am!" the assistants replied in unison, their voices echoing off the raw concrete walls.
"Good," Fleur nodded, her expression serious, tense. "Execute the plan exactly as specified and send me the progress logs by tonight. I need the architectural report, too. We need tp make sure everything is up to code."
With her briefing concluded, Fleur gathered her design files in a hurry, eager to escape the suffocating heat of the site. But as she reached for her bag on a nearby temporary table, her breath suddenly hitched.
Lying there was a glossy lifestyle magazine. Striding across the cover, looking every bit the predatory, devastatingly handsome Alpha he was, was Christian Wayne.
The photo had been captured at an exclusive gala thrown by Sylvia, and clinging tightly to his arm with a triumphant smirk was Carrie. The perfect couple together once again.
A wave of raw, visceral pain crashed through Fleur’s body, followed instantly by a searing flash of anger.
The memory of the last few days they had shared twisted like a knife in her gut. There had been no explicit vows, no grand declarations whispered in the dark, but she had felt the silent promises in the heavy, possessive way he looked at her.
She had believed, foolishly, of course, that his wild, untamed heart was finally settling.
How incredibly naive, she thought, a bitter, mocking laugh catching in her throat. What was I even thinking, trying to convince myself that he had changed?
Seeing him back to his old ways—basking in the adoration of another woman while the media swooned—burned a hole through her composure. She wasn’t just furious with Christian; she was disgusted with herself for being so easily disarmed by the dangerous allure in his eyes.
Clenching her fists until her knuckles turned a stark, bloodless white, she forced a deep, ragged breath into her lungs. He is not your concern anymore, she lied to herself, trying to ease the rigid tension locking up her shoulders.
Her phone vibrated in her palm, shattering the spiral. It was a text from Lea:
Just arrived at the second venue. The client is already here, waiting for us. Come.
***
Fleur hurried down to the basement parking structure, the sharp, rhythmic snap of her stilettos echoing eerily against the concrete. Since the mall was still under construction, the vast underground lot was entirely deserted. Looming pillars cast long, distorted shadows that felt like reaching claws in the dim lighting.
Suddenly, the fine hairs on the back of her neck stood up. A primal shiver rippled down her spine—the distinct, heavy sensation of a predator’s gaze locking onto her back. Her heart hammered against her ribs as she cast a frantic look around the empty bays.
Seeing nothing but the skeletal shadows of the building, she swallowed down the sudden spike of paranoia.
"Get it together, Fleur," she whispered under her breath.
Stepping into her car, she locked the doors instantly, started the engine, and tore out of the parking space, eager to swap the suffocating silence of the underworld for the chaotic energy of the city streets.
When Fleur arrived at the secondary mall, the contrast was jarring. She parked in the bustling front lot, grabbed her client files from the passenger seat, and checked her phone one last time to confirm the restaurant’s name.
The moment she stepped through the sliding glass doors of the main entrance, a wall of sound and light hit her. The grand atrium was packed to near-suffocation with an unusually massive crowd. Dozens of media personnel were swarming the corridors, heavy cameras raised high, microphones extended eagerly into the air as whispers of a high-profile arrival buzzed through the venue.
Great. A celebrity event, Fleur thought, shifting her files tightly against her chest. She had absolutely no time for public spectacles.
Squaring her shoulders, she lowered her gaze back to her phone to text Lea, navigating the edge of the crowd by memory alone. She took three swift, determined strides forward—and slammed directly into what felt like a solid, immovable wall of granite.
"Oh!" Fleur gasped as the impact rattled her bones.
Her grip failed, and her phone went flying, clattering loudly against the polished marble floor. Expecting to crash hard against the ground, her eyes instinctively squeezed shut in anticipation of the pain.
But the impact never came.
Instead, two massive, extraordinarily powerful hands locked around her waist with dominant, unyielding strength, pulling her flush against a broad, muscular chest. The sudden, overwhelming scent of expensive cologne, cedarwood, and pure authority enveloped her at once.
Stunned, Fleur blinked her eyes open, her breath catching entirely in her throat.
Staring down at her with an intense, unreadable gaze was Raphael Dumas.
Before her brain could process why the famous actor was standing in the middle of a commercial mall, a blinding cascade of camera flashes erupted all around them. The relentless, rapid-fire clicking of the paparazzi exploded like gunfire, trapping them both in the center of a media storm.
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