After 7 Years of Going Dutch, I Returned Home as a Mafia Heiress Chapter 08
At a commercial negotiation for a North District real estate development, the delegation from the opposing company walked into the conference room.
The door pushed open. The moment our eyes met, I saw Arthur, dressed in a sharp suit.
He was much thinner than he was three years ago. The lines of his jaw were sharper, harder, and his deep set pyes held a darkness I hadn’t seen before,
The moment he saw me, his steps faltered, and his breath hitched.
Then he walked around the long table, approached me, and held out his hand. “Long time no see, Vivian.”
1 barely gave him a glance. He was still wearing the same plain silver band on his ring finger.
I reached out, lightly brushed my fingertips against his palm, and pulled away in less than a second.
“Mr. Whitmore.” I settled back into the chair at the head of the table and tapped the proposal.
“Let’s not waste time. You can start with your proposal.”
“Let’s begin.”
For the entire two hour meeting, he sat across the long table.
I could feel his gaze on me, tracing the line of my fingers as I signed, the loose strands of hair at my neck, the small family crest pinned to my collar.
Looking at me, inch by inch.
I paid him no mind, and he kept the conversation strictly professional.
As soon as the meeting adjourned, my head of commercial relations whispered a report to me. “The Whitmore Group specifically requested that you personally handle all future project communications. Their exact words were, ‘Only Ms. Rossi can understand our needs.””
“Swap him out,” I said without looking up. “Send Silvio.”
“But the profit margins they’re offering are staggering…”
“Do as I say. If he won’t cooperate, kick him out of the building.”
The deputy immediately bowed respectfully and stepped back.
That night, I sat alone drinking at the hidden bar on the first floor of the club. A few corporate executives were whispering in a booth not far away.
One of them lowered his voice.
“That Arthur from the Vincross Group… did he have some kind of romantic entanglement with our Principessa back in the day?”
“So what if he did?” another man sneered.
“With the Principessa’s tactics? That woman is ruthless. Even the old families bend the knee to her now.”
“Exactly. Those ridiculous rumors from three years ago about her relying on a man to climb the ranks… if anyone dares breathe a word of that now, they probably won’t live to see tomorrow’s sun.”
A third man raised his glass, trying to smooth things over. “In San Rovia, power is the only law. And she is the law.
I swirled the amber liquid in my glass, the ghost of a smirk on my lips.
I pushed my chair back and stood up. The executives were so terrified they immediately shut their mouths, breaking into a cold sweat as they scurried away with their drinks.
No matter how relentlessly Arthur pestered us, the project eventually landed. Two weeks later, we held a celebratory real estate banquet in the penthouse ballroom.
I walked down the spiral staircase wearing a backless burgundy gown.
Down below, people looked up, the hands holding their glasses pausing.
Arthur stood in a corner of the hall, a glass of champagne caught between his fingers.
Across a sea of people, he kept his eyes on me.
Business associates went over to greet him, and socialites tried to strike up conversations. He forced out a couple of replies, but his gaze remained glued to me.
I couldn’t be bothered. Holding a glass of red wine, I walked right past him.
“Vivian.”
I stopped mid-step.
“You handled this merger beautifully.”
“Solid data, flawless logic. Clean and decisive.”
I used a napkin to dab at a drop of wine on my glove, preparing to leave. His eyes reddened as he added,
“You’re more dazzling than ever, Vivian.”
I turned my head. The lights cast a shallow layer of gold across his face.
A small, cold smile touched my lips.
“Mr. Whitmore, three years ago, you called me ‘unprofessional”.”
“In front of an entire floor of people, you dismissed seven years of my work with a single letter.”
“And now you’re holding a glass of champagne, offering me a belated, polite compliment?”
His knuckles whitened on the stem of his glass.
“I’m not being polite. I mean it. I’ve always thought so…”
“Then I’ll take it as the truth.”
I cut him off, my tone as flat as if we were discussing the weather.
“I accept it.”
Behind me, two bodyguards in sharp suits silently stepped up.
The hem of my burgundy dress swept across the marble floor. I didn’t look back at him again.
