Chapter 37: The Hostess Game

 

By the next afternoon, the Sterling Villa felt like a stranger's house.

Harper walked into the living room and froze. Her cozy throw pillows were gone. The warm, yellow curtains she had picked out were replaced with stiff, cold grey velvet. And worst of all, the vases of fresh jasmine and roses—Sebastian's favorite—were gone. In their place stood massive, imposing arrangements of white lilies.

"I hope you don't mind," Isabella’s voice floated down from the staircase. She was wearing a silk kimono, holding a glass of green juice. "The old decor was a bit... rustic. I thought Sebastian deserved something more sophisticated for the investor dinner tonight."

Harper clenched her fists. "The jasmine was Sebastian's favorite."

"Was," Isabella smiled condescendingly. "People change, darling. Sebastian is a CEO now, not a patient. He needs an environment that projects power, not... sentimentality."

She walked past Harper, snapping her fingers at a passing maid. "Make sure the wine is decanted by 6 PM. And tell the chef to switch the entree to Lobster Thermidor. No heavy sauces."

The maid looked at Harper nervously. Harper nodded slightly, signaling her to listen. Isabella caught the exchange and smirked. "Oh, and Harper? Tonight is a formal business dinner. My father and the board members will be here. Try to wear something... appropriate. Nothing off the rack, please."

---

[The Dinner Party]

At 7:00 PM, the guests arrived. Bankers in Italian suits, board members with cigars, and at the center of them all, Richard Vance, the banking tycoon.

Sebastian sat at the head of the table. He looked regal but grim. His eyes kept darting to the empty chair beside him.

"Where is she?" he whispered to Liam.

"She's coming," Liam whispered back. "Isabella tried to send her to the kitchen to 'check on the soup', but I intercepted her."

Just then, Harper entered. Isabella, seated on Sebastian's left, sipped her wine, waiting for Harper to embarrass herself in a cheap dress.

But Harper walked in wearing a stunning, emerald green velvet gown. It was simple, elegant, and hugged her curves perfectly. It was the dress Sebastian had bought her for the opera months ago, but she had never worn. She wore the pink diamond engagement ring, and nothing else. No flashy jewelry. Just confidence.

Sebastian’s eyes lit up. He extended his hand. "You look breathtaking."

Harper took his hand and sat on his right—the hostess seat. "Sorry I'm late," she smiled at the table. "I was just ensuring the chef followed Miss Vance's... specific dietary requests."

Isabella’s smile stiffened.

The dinner began. Isabella immediately launched her attack. She steered the conversation to topics she knew Harper wouldn't understand: international market trends, European tax laws, and complex derivatives.

"Sebastian," Isabella leaned in, ignoring Harper. "The European Central Bank's new policy is fascinating, isn't it? It reminds me of that summer we spent in Geneva. Remember the gala at the UN?"

"I remember," Sebastian said shortly, cutting his steak.

"Speaking of Europe," Isabella turned to the table and switched seamlessly to French. "Monsieur Vance, que pensez-vous de la fusion? C'est une opportunité magnifique, n'est-ce pas?" (Mr. Vance, what do you think of the merger? It's a magnificent opportunity, isn't it?)

The table erupted in fluent French conversation. Isabella smirked at Harper. "Oh, apologies, Harper. I forgot. Do you speak French? Or just... English?"

The table went quiet. Everyone looked at Harper. It was a clear, brutal exclusion.

Sebastian’s face darkened. He opened his mouth to answer for her, to switch the conversation back to English.

But Harper placed a hand on his arm to stop him. She picked up her wine glass.

"Je ne parle pas couramment," Harper said, her accent slightly hesitant but clear. "Mais je crois que la langue des affaires est universelle: le profit et l'intégrité." (I am not fluent. But I believe the language of business is universal: profit and integrity.)

She looked Isabella in the eye. "Et parfois, la simplicité est la sophistication suprême. Comme ce vin." (And sometimes, simplicity is the ultimate sophistication. Like this wine.)

Sebastian looked at her in shock. "You speak French?"

"I write novels, Sebastian," Harper whispered, winking. "I research. And I use G****e Translate a lot."

Isabella’s face turned red. Her trap had failed.

---

[The Noodle Shop]

Isabella wasn't done. She needed to hit harder.

"Well," Isabella laughed nervously. "A few phrases are cute. But let's talk about real business." She turned to her father, Richard Vance. "Dad, you know Harper's background is quite... unique. Her parents run a noodle shop in the Old District."

The bankers murmured. "A noodle shop?" "Working class?"

Isabella smiled venomously. "It must be such a change for you, Harper. Going from washing greasy bowls to sitting at this table. Tell me, do you find the cutlery confusing? There are so many forks."

Sebastian slammed his fork down. The sound echoed like a gunshot. "Isabella. That is enough."

"It's a valid question," Isabella shrugged innocently. "We need to know if the future Mrs. Sterling can handle the pressure. Or if she's just a... gold digger who got lucky."

"Actually," Harper spoke up, her voice calm and steady. She didn't look angry. She looked proud.

"My parents' noodle shop has been open for thirty years," Harper said. "They wake up at 4 AM every day to make broth. They stand on their feet for 12 hours. They have never cheated a customer, never stolen a cent, and never stepped on anyone to get ahead."

She looked around the table of wealthy men. "They taught me that dignity isn't about which fork you use. It's about how you treat people. And frankly, looking at this table..." Her gaze landed on Isabella. "...I think the 'class' in my noodle shop is much higher than what I'm seeing right now."

Silence. Total, stunned silence.

Sebastian looked at her with pure awe. He wanted to kiss her right there on the table.

Suddenly, a deep, booming laugh broke the tension. It was Richard Vance. The tycoon.

"Hahahaha! Good answer!" Richard Vance clapped his hands. "Very good answer! 'Dignity is about how you treat people.' I like that."

He looked at Harper with a strange intensity. He squinted, tilting his head. "Young lady... what did you say your last name was?"

"Evans, sir. Harper Evans."

Richard Vance frowned. The laughter faded from his eyes, replaced by a look of confusion and... recognition? "Evans..." he muttered. "You look incredibly like someone I knew... a long time ago. An artist. In Paris."

Isabella rolled her eyes. "Dad, please. She has a generic face."

"No," Richard Vance kept staring at Harper. He looked shaken. "It's the eyes. Those almond eyes..."

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a pocket watch. Inside was a small, faded photo of a woman. He looked at the photo. Then at Harper.

"Impossible," he whispered.