Chapter 8
Jeff stared at the screen, watching me shake hands with officials from another country’s Commerce Department. His Adam’s apple bobbed violently.
“Tell the finance department to raise the interest rate on the shares pledged to the bank by two points,” he muttered.
Meanwhile, as the plane pierced through the stratosphere, I was at the executive lounge of a hotel, signing for a special delivery.
I peeled back the protective foam to reveal all our marriage and divorce papers.
A sticky note from Scarlett, sent from back home, was tucked between them.
[He says collecting all of these will make you change your mind.]
I pressed the call button and smiled at the concierge who arrived.
“Please shred these for me,” I said lightly.
By the time Jeff finally tracked me down, I was sitting in a café with Albert Foster from Foster Enterprise, the man I was
supposed to be forming a marriage alliance with.
In a glass conservatory on Everton Avenue, Albert’s fingers traced the rim of his coffee cup slowly.
For three years, this Monarch Street acquisition powerhouse, known as the “Mad Wolf“, had only ever shown this kind of patience with me.
“It’s been three years and four months since we met,” he said, reaching into his suit pocket and pulling out a small blue velvet box.
“I’ve decided to stop counting the days.”
The moment he opened the box, the sunlight streaming through the glass seemed to converge on the center stone.
It was a 12–carat rare pink diamond, surrounded by more than 20 top–quality white diamonds. It looked like a miniature galaxy.
“I had it taken out from a Montreux bank last month,” he said, lifting my wrist adorned with a thin business watch.
“It suits you even better than I imagined.”

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