Chapter 2

The St. George's Private Cigar Club in Mayfair.

Rain lashed against the arched stained-glass windows, blurring the streetlights into warm, golden smears.

Inside, the air was thick with the scent of Davidoff cigars and rich agarwood—a quiet, masculine luxury that radiated cold, absolute power.

Christian Reynolds leaned back into a deep brown leather armchair, his long legs crossed lazily. Dressed in a sharply tailored three-piece gray suit, wearing rimless gold glasses, his gaze was cold, calculating, and unreadable.

On the mahogany table before him lay a thick draft of an alliance agreement.

"Mr. Reynolds, Mrs. Vance has called three times," his chief assistant, Alec, reported softly. "They want to officially sign the intent for the overseas mining rights transfer during tomorrow night's rehearsal dinner."

Christian swirled the crystal glass in his hand, watching the amber single malt leave thick legs along the glass.

"Serena Vance." Christian let out a dry, disdainful smirk, evaluating her like a cheap piece of property.

"I heard she can't even read a balance sheet, but excels at buying dresses and crying. Vance must be desperate for my North American green energy quotas if he's willing to push out such a trophy fool."

"So, sir?"

"Sign it," Christian said coldly, taking off his glasses to massage his temples. "Stupid is easier to manage. The old foxes on Vance Group's board just need a puppet as a bridge."

Before the assistant could offer him a pen.

BANG!

The heavy walnut doors of the club were shoved open with decisive force.

A flustered concierge rushed in behind. "I'm so sorry, Mr. Reynolds! This lady didn't have an appointment, she—"

Christian raised his head, his eyes turning to ice. This was his private sanctuary; nobody entered uninvited.

Yet, when his gaze landed on the woman at the door, his brow twitched slightly.

Vivian stood there holding a black umbrella, which she casually slid into the umbrella stand.

Her dark green tailored suit hugged her tall, slender frame. Raindrops glistened on her sharp bob, and her dark crimson lips were impossibly striking under the dim lights.

There was no fragile, greenhouse heiress about her. She radiated the raw, untamed danger of someone who had walked out of a hurricane.

"Miss Vance?" Christian eyed her with a sudden, dangerous curiosity. "If memory serves, you're the older sister in tomorrow's arrangement. Breaking into your future brother-in-law's private club at night doesn't seem like proper old-money etiquette."

"Etiquette is reserved for decent people, Mr. Reynolds."

Vivian walked toward him, her stilettos clicking rhythmically against the hardwood floor like a countdown.

Ignoring the guarded assistant entirely, she tossed her black leather bag onto his table with a loud thud.

"Unlike my hypocritical stepmother, I don't waste time on small talk." Vivian looked down at him, her gaze sharp as an icicle.

"If you sign that contract tomorrow night, within three months, 18% of Reynolds Tech's core patent equity will be shorted via offshore accounts and fall into your rival's hands."

Christian's narrow eyes slitted.

"Are you threatening me?" Christian stood up slowly.

His towering frame instantly cast Vivian in his shadow, his voice dropping into a dangerous growl.

"Framing your stepmother and sister without proof won't win you back your engagement, Miss Vance."

"Framing them?"

Vivian let out a soft laugh. Instead of backing away, she stepped closer, bridging the dangerous gap between them.

The aroma of rich whisky mingled with the cold scent of rain clinging to her skin, pulling the tension to a breaking point.

Vivian unzipped her bag, pulled out a stack of gold-embossed files, and slammed them straight onto Christian's chest before sliding them down onto the table.

"These are financial transactions between my stepmother, Eleanor, and shell companies in the Cayman Islands, along with short accounts set up in Serena's name," Vivian's voice was hypnotic."She never intended to give you the Vance mining rights. Serena is a Trojan horse meant to infiltrate your empire. You think you're making a profitable alliance, but you're just prey to their greed."

Christian looked down, scanning the hidden offshore paper trails. As an elite investor, he recognized the lethal authenticity of the data in an instant.

His icy detachment crumbled, replaced by the dark fury of someone whose intelligence had been insulted—and a fierce, sudden fascination with the woman before him.

"Fascinating," Christian scoffed, picking up the last page. "But this only proves they are snakes, not that you're a worthy partner. Why should I ditch a obedient puppet for a thorned rose like you?"

"Because a puppet can't give you this." Vivian flipped to the final page.

Stamped on it was the original Vance Family Trust seal—granting a 15% absolute voting right in Vance Group's top three mining zones.

"This is my mother's private legacy. It doesn't pass through the board, nor through my father. It belongs entirely to me."

Vivian reached out, grabbing Christian's silk tie, pulling the untouchable billionaire down toward her. Her eyes blazed with ruthless ambition.

"Serena is offering you an empty promise. I am offering you the lifeline of the Vance Empire. Cancel the engagement with her, and sign an alliance with me."

Christian allowed her to pull his tie, feeling the cool touch of her fingers. He lowered his head, his breath fanning across her lips.

"What do you want, Vivian?" his voice was dark and low. "To steal your sister's fiancé? Or revenge on your stepmother?"

"I want the Vance Empire," Vivian met his gaze without hiding an ounce of her greed. "I want my father to hand me the crown himself, and I want those two snakes thrown out of Vance Manor like trash. You carve me an opening on the board, and I'll secure your industrial supply chain across Europe."

A heavy silence enveloped the room, broken only by the storm outside.

Alec held his breath, breaking out in a cold sweat. Nobody had ever dared grab Mr. Reynolds by the necktie and demand such insane terms.

One second... two seconds...

Suddenly, a low chuckle rumbled from Christian's chest—a dark, bloodthirsty sound.

He raised his hand, placing his large palm over hers, his heat causing Vivian's fingers to twitch.

"You are infinitely more interesting than your boring little sister, Miss Vance," Christian flipped their positions, pressing her hand firmly against the table. The amusement in his eyes melted into pure hunger.

"But this is a dangerous game. If you fail to put on a good show at tomorrow's dinner, I'll toss you and these documents straight into the Thames."

"Then you'd better order the champagne," Vivian pulled her hand back, smoothing her lapels, her gaze colder than ever. "Because tomorrow night will be their worst nightmare."

Christian turned, pouring two glasses of scotch and handing one to her.

"To our dirty little transaction, Miss Vance."

"To the coronation of the Queen, Mr. Reynolds."

Vivian took a sip of the burning spirit, raised her black umbrella, and walked out into the rain without looking back.

Christian stood by the tall window, watching her emerald figure vanish into the dark night. He lifted the original marriage draft, tore it into pieces, and let them scatter into the air.

"Alec," Christian smirked. "Tell the tailors to get my tuxedo ready. Tomorrow night, we have a show to watch."