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Chapter 2
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2025-08-17 06:22:19The Ritz Paris glittered like a jewel that evening. Chandeliers cast golden light across the grand ballroom. Waiters in white gloves moved like shadows among Paris’s elite, balancing trays of champagne flutes that sparkled like liquid gold. The soft notes of a string quartet floated through the air, mingling with murmurs of conversation and occasional bursts of laughter.
Bella Carter stood near the entrance, smoothing invisible wrinkles from her sleek black dress. Modest by Parisian standards, but elegant enough to blend in with the fashionable crowd. She clutched her clipboard like a lifeline, checking off names as guests arrived. Everything had to be perfect.
This gala wasn’t just any company event, it was Moreau International’s annual investor celebration, a night when contracts worth millions were secured over glasses of Bordeaux and carefully chosen words. Her boss, Alexander Moreau, had made that clear earlier that morning.
“There can be no mistakes tonight, Miss Carter.”She had nodded, heart pounding, vowing not to disappoint him.
Midway through the evening, a caterer whispered frantically into her ear.
“The wine shipment… there’s been a mix-up. We don’t have the Château Margaux that was requested for the Lambert table.”
Bella’s blood ran cold. Château Margaux wasn’t just any wine. Mr. Henri Lambert, billionaire investor and notorious perfectionist, had personally requested it. Rumor had it he’d walked out of deals over less.
She tightened her grip on the clipboard. “What do you mean you don’t have it?”
“It was delivered to the wrong event. Some gala in Lyon. We only have Château Pichon Baron.”Her mind raced. To most, the difference would be negligible but not to Lambert. If Alexander found out… she couldn’t let that happen.
Steeling herself, she approached the Lambert table, rehearsing her explanation. Maybe she could charm her way out. But luck, as usual, wasn’t on her side.
Lambert swirled the wine in his glass, eyes narrowing.“This,” he said, voice carrying across the table, “is not Château Margaux.”
Conversations faltered nearby. Bella felt all eyes on her.
“I.....I assure you, Monsieur Lambert, it is an excellent vintage”
“Do you take me for a fool?” Lambert snapped.
Before Bella could respond further, Alexander Moreau appeared, silent and imposing. His gaze swept the room, landing on Lambert, then Bella.
“Problem?” His voice carried a weight that silenced everyone.Lambert bristled. “Your assistant insulted me, Moreau. I requested Château Margaux. I received… this.”
Alexander’s jaw tightened. He took the glass from Lambert, swirling the liquid once before setting it down.
“This is Château Pichon Baron,” he said coolly. “One of France’s finest vintages. If you consider it an insult, Monsieur Lambert, perhaps your palate is not as refined as you claim.”
He leaned in slightly, eyes icy. “And if you ever raise your voice at my assistant again, you will not be welcome at any Moreau International event.”
Gasps rippled through the ballroom. Alexander turned, dismissing Lambert with effortless authority, and guided Bella to a quiet corridor.Her pulse raced. “You… defended me.”
“Would you have preferred otherwise?” His gaze was unreadable, but softer than usual.
“I made a mistake,” she admitted. “I should have double-checked the shipment.”
“Even the best make mistakes,” he said quietly. “But I will not tolerate anyone tearing down the people who keep this company running.”
For a heartbeat, warmth replaced the Ice King mask. His thumb brushed her sleeve, a fleeting gesture that left her skin tingling. Then the mask returned.
“Return to the ballroom. And don’t let this distract you.”
Bella obeyed, clutching her clipboard like a shield. But she couldn’t shake the memory of the way he’d defended her, not as a boss, not as a CEO, but as a man letting his guard slip.
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The rain had begun before dusk, a relentless sheet that blurred Paris into streaks of silver. From the window of her small apartment, Bella watched the city, each drop painting the streets like tears. She had stayed at the office far later than usual, double-checking project files, each keystroke a distraction from the truth she had been avoiding.She was leaving.Not with a dramatic announcement, not immediately. But the resignation letter sat in her drafts folder, blinking at her with quiet insistence. One more sideways glance from a colleague, one more whispered rumor about her proximity to Alexander Moreau, and she would hit send. She could no longer endure the murmurings that implied her career was bought rather than earned.Her heart twisted at the thought of him, Alexander. The man who had moments of startling tenderness, yet remained a fortress behind his cold, precise exterior. He offered her fragments of himself: fleeting warmth, unspoken concern, rare gestures of care. But
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