Semua Bab The Tycoon’s Temptress - Red Flower’s Chase: Bab 41 - Bab 50

Valentina’s POV Thin air, thick tension. The altitude makes it hard to breathe. We arrive at last, exhausted and wind-bitten near a sacred glacial lake in Sikkim, India. There are no roads here, only winding paths carved through the mountains, accessible by mule and sheer will. Our mules are sturdy Himalayan hybrids, draped in vibrant woolen saddlebags hand-stitched with protective charms. Their bridles jingle softly with little brass bells, and their hooves crunch over the jagged trail. They carry our gear and offerings, their heads crowned with marigold garlands from the last village—a gesture of respect to the spirits that are supposed to guard the mountains. I’m wrapped in a layered saffron-yellow pashmina over a sleek and pale thermal jumpsuit—traditional elegance clashing with the bare practicality of altitude survival. Around my neck, that fine saffron pashmina I borrowed from Maria flutters like a flame. Raffaele walks beside me, dressed in a burnt terraco

Raffaele’s POV As we fell, time slowed. A flash—rain hammering the windows in Milan. My father, Enzo, pacing like a caged animal, ranting about Fiametta. Another fight. Another one of her regular disappearances. Oil contracts and half-torn love letters scattered across the floor. I remember hiding behind the curtain, barely breathing, as he hurled a glass at the wall. His voice low and cracked: “If I can’t have her, no one can” The next day, he vanished. Gone to madness, out to find her. And I was left behind to clean up the wreckage. That night, I made a vow: I would never let obsession consume me. But I also knew—I could never let someone I care about deeply fall alone. Next thing I knew, I landed on Valentina with a thud. She groaned and complained, “Why are you always stealing my air?” I smirked. “Admit it, Valentina—I make you always breathless.” “No, you are crushing me!” “Ooh!” I said, and grabbed a hold of her waist, flipping her on top of me. “N

Raffaele’s POV My private jet will soon touch down at a remote airstrip near Swakopmund, the closest suitable runway for Namibia’s Skeleton Coast region in Africa. My shoulders are tense and tired—I’m still rattled from Domenico’s call and Fiametta’s madness. Valentina sits quietly across from me, clutching her head, still recovering from the lingering effects of the vision and the altitude sickness from Gurudongmar. The jet cabin is dim, silent except for the engine’s faint buzz. I loosen my collar, pressing my fingers to my temples. The dull ache comes every time I hear the name Fiametta. Valentina rests against the window, head tilted, trying to block out the light. “You okay?” I ask, not really expecting her to say yes. She smirks faintly. “Just seeing sunken cities and lost shipwrecks. You?” I give a tight smile. “Fiametta threatened to swan dive off a shopping mall, Domenico nearly had a stroke, and my father still thinks love means property rights.” I lean back. “So…

Raffaele’s POV After lunch at Jetty 1905, we didn’t linger. Valentina had somehow pulled herself back together to her usual poised self. She felt less brittle and more focused. The wine had smoothed her edges, and I could already see the excitement brimming in her eyes. As we drove through Swakopmund, the streets shifted from wide, sandy roads to rows of pastel-colored houses with curved balconies and ornate trim. The town, once a German outpost, still wore its colonial past—buildings in Jugendstil and Art Nouveau lining the streets like something from a misplaced European postcard. It looked more like a seaside resort town from Germany than anything I expected in the Namibian desert. So out of place. And strangely elegant. By the time the limousine rolled up to the colonial archives in central Swakopmund, she was practically vibrating with restrained anticipation. The building Haus Hohenzollern had once been a hotel for German dignitaries, then a gambling den

Raffaele's POV The desert rolled beneath us in endless folds of gold, the morning sun burning the dunes into molten waves. The only sound was the occasional roar of the flame above as our captain, Hembapu Zimmermann, adjusted the burner. Valentina stood beside me, the wind teasing strands of her dark hair across her cheek—her gaze locked on the horizon, like she already belonged, here with me by her side. “Do you like it, Valentina?” I asked, raising an eyebrow. She leaned into my chest for once. “Yes. I adore it.” “Do you adore the horizon… or me?” I said with a smirk. “Don’t be silly. You know how I feel about you,” she said, giving my chest a playful push. “Actually, no. I think I do—but then I make one wrong move, and suddenly I don’t know what’s up or down anymore.” “All within good time… as I said, Raffaele. Don’t be so impatient.” I sighed and just held her. Nothing was ever easy when it came to Valentina. Hembapu Zimmermann interrupted our quiet moment. “Prepare