บททั้งหมดของ Worth Every Million: บทที่ 91 - บทที่ 100

The air in the grove tasted of sharp winter frost, crushed olive leaves, and the woodsmoke rising from the kitchen chimney down at the main house.By seven in the morning, long before the sun cleared the eastern hills, the upper slopes of Villa Serena were already alive with the rustle of coarse canvas nets being spread across the grass. Bright green plastic rakes combed through the heavy branches, sending a steady, rhythmic rain of small, dark fruit bouncing into the mesh below.I stood on a wooden step stool beneath a centuries-old tree near the top ridge, my thick leather gloves coated in dark oil and silver dust. Beside me, Moretti's widowed sister, Elena, was working three branches down, her weathered hands moving with a fluid, effortless speed that put my deliberate efforts to shame."Hold the branch near the joint, Nora," Elena said, her voice warm and scratchy as she reached past a cluster of leaves. "If you yank the twig, you hurt next year's crop. Treat the tree like an old

The dirt trail winding up the ridge was rough, overgrown in places with thick patches of wild rosemary and stubborn gorse bushes that caught at the edges of my canvas coat.By three in the afternoon, Marcus and Sofia had departed for their late flight out of Florence, leaving Villa Serena back in its quiet, natural rhythm. The estate cars had barely disappeared past the lower iron gates when Damien suggested the walk. He didn't say where we were going, but the moment he pointed us toward the narrow shepherd's path behind the upper vineyard, I knew.We hadn't been up to the high cliffside since late spring.Back then, the path had felt like a breathless escape. We had climbed it in the middle of a tense, exhausting week when Victor's legal maneuvers were pressing hard against Vance Enterprises, and when my own name was still dragged daily through the tabloids. On that afternoon months ago, we had stood at the rocky ledge carrying pistols under our jackets, hyper-aware of every rustle i

The smell of old parchment, dark walnut ink, and cold winter air filled the long library on the ground floor of Villa Serena.It was mid-afternoon on a sharp Tuesday. Outside, a light breeze rattled the tall wooden window frames, sending fallen olive leaves skipping across the flagstone terrace. Inside, three heavy leather-bound folders sat opened on the dark mahogany table, surrounded by legal documents printed on heavy cream paper.Avvocato Rossi, a sharp, white-haired Florentine attorney who had managed independent estate trusts for four decades, adjusted his gold-rimmed spectacles as he turned the final page of the charter."I must ask one last time, Mr. Vance," Rossi said, his voice quiet, measured, and formal. "By signing this irrevocable land disposition, you are permanently relinquishing your individual right to sell, mortgage, or commercially redevelop the lower eighty acres of Villa Serena. The land, the studio structures, and the agricultural income will belong entirely to

The sun reached its peak around two in the afternoon, casting a soft, golden warmth over the courtyard of Villa Serena.There were no valets lined up along the cypress drive, no security teams sweeping the perimeter with earpieces, and no red carpets laid out across the flagstones. The heavy iron gates stood wide open to the Tuscan hills, letting in the faint sound of church bells drifting from the village valley below.I stood by the full-length mirror in the master suite, smoothing down the skirt of a simple, ivory silk dress that fell softly to my ankles. It wasn't an elaborate ballgown designed to command headlines in Manhattan fashion magazines. It was unadorned, elegant, and comfortable, moving smoothly with every breath I took.On my left ring finger, the heavy, hand-hammered gold band caught the midday sun, its warm surface polished by daily wear.The bedroom door opened quietly, and Sofia walked inside. She wore a tailored olive-green jumpsuit, her dark hair pinned back with

The small, private workshop tucked behind the main studio had remained locked every evening for the past six weeks.It was a narrow, high-ceilinged room with a single northern window overlooking the cypress grove. Unlike the main working space where I mixed gesso, drafted foundation blueprints, and stored supplies, this room held no client projects, no gallery portfolios, and no official foundation work. It held a single, massive six-foot canvas resting on a reinforced oak easel, draped under a heavy white linen cloth.It was nine o'clock on a cool, starlit Friday evening.The house was completely still. A soft mountain breeze whistled through the terrace arches outside, carrying the clean scent of crushed pine needles and damp earth.I stood in the center of the workshop, holding a small brass key in my hand, my heart beating with a nervous, electric flutter that felt startlingly fresh. I had spent late nights in this room while Damien was down at the farm buildings or reading in the