Orlando Brownie was having the time of his life these past few days. The investment deal with the Beaubon family over the Bourbon Palace land in Paris's prestigious 7th district was almost finalized, and the contract was set to be signed soon. On paper, it might look like the Brownie family was taking a hit—covering 60% of the funding while only receiving a 25% stake—but Orlando didn't see it that way.
The Brownie family had grown rapidly in recent years. Their liquidity rivaled that of any of the other three great families, and with the formidable backing he had, Orlando felt invincible.
A sly smile played on his lips as he thought, "Billions of euros on the line… if I pull out of the deal at the last moment, the Beaubon family would crumble. Unless, of course, they offer me their precious daughter in exchange."
"Perfect. I'll kill two birds with one stone. Once I have Helena under my control, I'll have the Beaubon family in the palm of my hand!"
The thought darkened his expression. Picking up his phone, he dialed a number. "Any word on that Fanmuir kid?" he asked curtly.
When his suspicions were confirmed, Orlando let out a chilling laugh. "A broke kid from the Italian Alps? Let's see how long you last against me." Turning toward the adjacent room, where the sound of revelry grew louder, he called out, "Senior brother, I'm heading out. Don't let me interrupt your fun." Alger Gruber didn't respond directly—his labored breathing and the woman's sultry moans were answer enough.
Orlando scoffed at the scene. "Useless. All you do is chase women. Master should never have sent you to help me. No matter. You're one less obstacle in my way."
Meanwhile, Helena couldn't shake the heavy fog clouding her mind. Fanmuir's parting silhouette replayed endlessly in her thoughts, a torment she couldn't escape.
Her childhood crush, Orlando Brownie, had been showering her with attention recently—flowers, invitations, sweet words—but after their initial meeting, all her feelings for him seemed to have evaporated.
"What's wrong with me? Father spoke to me today about the collaboration with the Brownie family, stressing how crucial it is for us. From the way he talked, it's clear he expects me to marry Orlando Brownie and secure the alliance. This was my dream for so long… so why do I feel this dread? Why do I keep thinking of Fanmuir, that fool?"
Her musings were interrupted by a phone call. Seeing Orlando's name on the screen, she felt an unexplainable wave of disgust. Yet, as the eldest daughter of the Beaubon family, she knew better than to offend such a powerful ally. After some hesitation, she answered.
Orlando invited her to a bar that evening. She wanted to refuse, but in the end, she figured a night out might help clear her mind and reluctantly agreed.
New York Story Bar.
As Orlando and Helena walked in, the bar's lively atmosphere came to a halt. Conversations paused mid-sentence, drinks hovered mid-sip, and even the dancers froze as their eyes fell on the pair.
The women couldn't take their eyes off Orlando. "That face! Those piercing eyes, sharp features, commanding presence, and broad shoulders—imagine being the one he holds on the dance floor!"
But the moment they noticed the radiant beauty at his side, they turned away in disappointment. She was far too gorgeous for them to compete with.
Fanmuir and his colleague Delphina both noticed the commotion. However, unlike the other women who seemed utterly captivated, Delphina only spared it a glance before returning her attention to Fanmuir.
Women had a natural sensitivity to these things, and Delphina quickly picked up on the shift in Fanmuir's mood—a quiet disappointment layered with something more complicated. Studying his slightly uneasy expression, she felt a twinge of sympathy and asked gently, "Do you know them?"
"Yes," Fanmuir replied, his tone indifferent. "The girl is my classmate."
"Do you like her?" Delphina's voice was teasing as she moved a little closer.
"Huh? Oh…" Fanmuir hesitated, suddenly unsure how to answer. His mind went blank for a second before it spiraled into confusion.
He had spent months in the human world, forming subtle, ambiguous relationships with several women. Yet, he had never truly stopped to distinguish between "liking" and "loving."
Do I like Helena? Am I upset because I care about her? But what does it even mean to like someone?
Lost in thought, Fanmuir's mind flickered through images of Carolyn, Helena, Delphina, and even the Australian teacher. He couldn't deny that being with them felt easy and comfortable. But being with Helena was different—despite their occasional bickering, whenever she leaned against him, he felt an odd sense of happiness, something he couldn't quite name.
Delphina's direct question had completely thrown him off balance. For someone still learning to navigate human relationships, deciphering the complexities of love and emotions was far beyond his understanding.
Delphina, on the other hand, felt a strange discomfort at his hesitation. The fleeting confusion and trace of sadness in his eyes unexpectedly tugged at her heart, stirring an ache she couldn't quite explain.
Women's intuition was eerily sharp. Even in the dim, crowded bar, Helena's gaze unerringly found Fanmuir—standing close to an alluring bartender.
To a woman already feeling possessive, even the most innocent scene could seem like a betrayal.
"That idiot Fanmuir! He's so stiff and awkward around me, but with other women, he's laughing and acting all warm and charming!"
A surge of jealousy flared in Helena's chest.
Maybe it was a knee-jerk reaction, but she suddenly felt an urge to retaliate. Ignoring the discomfort curling in her stomach, she leaned toward Orlando Brownie, intending to slip her hand into the crook of his arm. But, for reasons she couldn't quite explain, she hesitated halfway and let her hand drop.
Fanmuir and Helena's eyes met for the briefest of moments before they both looked away.
The memory of the Orleans family's banquet still lingered in Fanmuir's mind, but now, with some distance, he realized he might have overreacted back then. Since surviving the devastation of the "Heavenly Thunder Tribulation," he had come to many realizations—he no longer clung to the past.
There are plenty of people who truly care about me—Carolyn, even Delphina right here. What does Helena's high status matter? Do I need to rely on a wealthy woman? If she wants to stay close to Orlando Brownie despite my warnings, that's her choice.
His gaze briefly rested on Helena before he turned back to Delphina, resuming their conversation with an easy smile, as if nothing had happened.
Fanmuir had plenty of people in his life who truly cared about him—Carolyn, and even Delphina right by his side. Compared to them, what did Helena matter? So what if she had a noble background? Did he need to rely on a rich woman to get ahead? If Helena insisted on staying close to Orlando Brownie despite his warnings, then she could do as she pleased. His gaze barely lingered on her before he turned back to Delphina, continuing their conversation with an easy smile.
Orlando Brownie—the so-called rising star of the Four Great Martial Families—was nothing more than a privileged playboy. Arrogant, self-important, and completely lacking in restraint, he reveled in his own ego and indulgences. Ever since their first meeting, he had been itching for an excuse to crush Fanmuir. And tonight, with Helena—the stunning beauty—by his side, he wasn't about to let this opportunity go to waste. He would make sure Helena saw just how insignificant Fanmuir truly was, how weak and undeserving he was compared to someone like himself.
"Well, well! Helena, isn't that your classmate? The one who was with you at the Orleans family banquet? What's he doing working in a place like this?" Orlando's voice was thick with feigned surprise, but his expression was pure condescension.
The sneer in his tone made Helena uncomfortable in a way she hadn't expected. It was as if someone she cared about was being belittled, and the thought irritated her. Her eyes flicked toward Orlando, and suddenly, she saw him for what he truly was—a repulsive, arrogant rat. The realization was like swallowing something bitter. If it weren't for the fact that the Beaupaypon family's business dealings with the Brownie family were at such a critical stage, she would have already turned around and walked away.
Orlando Brownie, however, saw the flash of irritation on her face—and instead of being offended, he was quite satisfied with himself.
"No need for greetings, then. Let's head over there." His voice was casual, but he shot a smug glance in Fanmuir's direction.
Helena was caught in a whirlwind of emotions. She wanted nothing more than to pull Fanmuir away from Delphina, to keep him from smiling at another woman. But she couldn't just swallow her pride and do it—not with Orlando standing right beside her. At this moment, she wasn't even sure how to face Fanmuir at all.
Helena and Orlando Brownie took a seat by the window. She mindlessly ordered a few drinks and a fruit platter, barely paying attention to what she was doing. She had originally come to New York Story Bar to relax—to sing, dance, and shake off the stress. But now, instead of unwinding, she felt even more restless. And for some reason, the idea of Fanmuir seeing her sitting here with Orlando left an unpleasant knot in her chest.
Orlando, on the other hand, was enjoying every second of her discomfort.
The bar wasn't large—maybe 200 or 300 square meters—so it was inevitable that Fanmuir, moving between tables to serve customers, would eventually pass by Helena's. Like most privileged heirs, Orlando Brownie delighted in asserting his dominance over those he deemed beneath him. The moment he spotted Fanmuir approaching, a cruel smile stretched across his lips, his eyes flashing with amusement.
"Well, well! If it isn't Fanmuir! So, this is where you work, huh?" His voice rang out, full of smug provocation. His face radiated sheer arrogance, his tone oozing condescension.
Helena stiffened, caught off guard by Orlando's sudden remark. A wave of anger and embarrassment surged through her. It was painfully obvious to anyone listening that his feigned surprise was nothing more than an excuse to humiliate Fanmuir.
She had never expected Orlando to be so petty, so utterly classless. The realization hit her hard, filling her with deep disappointment. But more than that, guilt twisted in her chest—guilt for Fanmuir. She felt awful, though she wasn't even sure why. Her fingers curled slightly, but she couldn't bring herself to look up at him.
Why was she acting like this? If she had made a mistake, she should just admit it and fix it. So why was she behaving like a coward, like an ostrich burying its head in the sand, hoping to escape reality?
Fanmuir, however, had already moved on from the past. The Orleans family banquet no longer bothered him. And Orlando's taunts? They meant nothing to him. He had never had an ounce of respect for the man to begin with.
But when he noticed Helena lowering her head, as if ashamed to even face him, an unsettling coldness stirred inside him.
He had completely misunderstood her reaction.
Meanwhile, Orlando, feeding off his own arrogance, leaned in further, his smirk growing nastier. "Fanmuir, you really are just a lowly bar waiter, huh?" His voice dripped with disdain.
That was the last straw.
Helena had reached her limit. She could no longer sit back and pretend. Her eyes blazed with fury, her face flushed with anger, and she was just about to snap at Orlando—to defend Fanmuir, to put this insufferable man in his place.
But she was too late.
Fanmuir had already had enough.