Open Play: Ladies, Goals, The Everything System in-between

Chapter 74: [74] "Return on Investment"

Thursday night. The Laurent Estate.

Luc’s black Porsche chewed up the long, oak-lined driveway, the headlights very visible through the darkness. The massive iron gates had opened automatically upon his approach, a silent acknowledgment that he was expected.

Luc parked on the circular driveway. The mastiff was nowhere to be seen tonight, probably kept inside away from the freezing temperatures.

He was ushered into the mansion by the same silent security guard in the dark suit. But instead of being led to Hugo’s media room, he was escorted up the grand staircase to the west wing.

The guard opened a set of heavy mahogany doors and gestured Luc to step aside.

It was Valérie’s private study, the same place they created magic a few weeks ago. The only light came from a fire place in a massive stone containment and a single desk lamp shining on a stack of papers.

Valérie Laurent was standing by the fireplace.

She wore a tailored silk blazer over a dark camisole, her posture as rigid and commanding as ever. She held two crystal clear glasses in one hand, the amber liquid inside catching the firelight.

"You’re late," she said, without turning around.

"Traffic," Luc said, closing the heavy doors behind him. The lock clicked.

Valérie turned. She walked over and handed him one of the glasses. Her fingers brushed his for a fraction of a second, the contact cold and deliberate.

"Thirteen to fourteen," Valérie said, taking a slow sip from her glass. "The media has been churning out articles all afternoon."

Luc tasted the bourbon. It was old, expensive, and burned beautifully on the way down.

Valérie walked over to her desk and leaned against the edge, crossing her legs at the ankles. Her dark eyes tracked him as he moved closer to the fire. "Fontaine plays at noon. If he scores a minimum of twice against Bretagne, your calculators won’t matter. You’ll need four goals against a low block."

"He won’t score twice," Luc said.

"You can’t control that."

Luc stepped toward her, invading the space she usually kept aggressively clear.

"Let’s focus on Nord who haven’t won away all season. They’re going to park eleven men behind the ball and pray for a zero-zero draw. And how do you plan to break that?" Valérie asked, tilting her head slightly.

"Patience. And Hugo."

Valérie’s expression softened slightly at the mention of the boy she had pulled from an orphanage. "He’s playing well. I’m proud of him."

"He’s the best playmaker in the league," Luc corrected. "He just needed minutes and someone to actually finish the chances he creates."

Valérie set her glass down on the desk. She looked at Luc, the ruthless billionaire facade slipping just a fraction, revealing the intense, possessiveness underneath.

"I bought this club to prove a point," Valérie said, her voice dropping lower in the quiet room. "Henri probably signed you because you were cheap, angry, and highly arrogant. But the narrative has shifted. You are no longer just an asset, Beaumont."

"Yeah?"

"You are the face of my empire." She reached out, her manicured hand resting flat against his chest, right over his heart. "If you lose this wager and leave the league, SC Valois loses its teeth. I will not allow that to happen."

"I’m not leaving."

"Prove it." Her fingers curled, gripping the fabric of his shirt. "On Saturday, I want you to dismantle them. I want to sit in my box and watch Olivier Fontaine realize he has lost his crown."

Luc looked down at her. The transaction they usually engaged in was shifting. She wasn’t just demanding a return on investment... she was demanding absolute victory. She wanted the blood of the Parisian elites.

He covered her hand with his own, his grip firm.

"His crown is already mine," Luc said quietly.

Valérie’s eyes darkened, the firelight dancing in her pupils. She pulled him forward, sucking his lips with the sudden, violent intensity that defined everything they did behind closed doors.

There was no romance here. It was a collision of ambition, stress, and absolute power. It was two predators devouring each other.

Luc backed her into the heavy oak desk, the crystal glass cup rattling dangerously near the edge. He didn’t care. He poured the tension surrounding the wager into physical exertion.

[System Notification]

[Testosterone Spike: Aggression levels maximized for 24 hours.]

[No points spent this time. You’re welcome.]

"Let’s fuck by the fire."

"Yes!"

Only the sound of flesh slapping together and the cackling sound of the fire filled the room.

---

An hour later the fire had dropped from a roar to a steady burn, the logs settling into themselves with low cracks.

Valérie sat on the edge of the desk, the silk blazer back on, her dark hair still slightly loose from its usual severe styling. She had her bourbon back in her hand like the interruption had been minor.

Pretending like she wasn’t still burning up.

Luc stood by the fire. His shirt was buttoned. His boots were already back on. He looked like he had just completed a training session... technically what they did was similar.

"There’s something I need to tell you," Valérie said. "Professionally."

"Go on."

"The Qatari consortium has been quietly speaking to Henri about a coaching role in their network. A technical director position. Very well compensated." She drank. "They made the approach three weeks ago. Henri hasn’t accepted but he hasn’t declined either."

Luc processed that. "When will he decide?"

"End of season. The second half will determine it." Valérie set the glass down again. "If we finish higher than seventh, which we are currently well above, if the club’s commercial value keeps climbing, he stays. If the results turn and the brand loses momentum, he takes the money and leaves quietly."

"Does the team know?"

"No. And they won’t until he decides. That’s not your concern right now. But it will be, eventually. The new manager, whoever that is, will need to decide whether you are the framework or a feature of this club."

"Fuck whoever thinks I’m just a feature."

"Then play like it on Saturday."

Luc picked up his jacket from the armchair near the door.

"The mastiff," Luc said from the doorway. "Does Hugo like it?"

"Very much infact. He even named it."

"What did he name it?"

"Penalty."