Chapter 3
1253words
Corvis seemed to be waiting for some expression of awe. After all, according to his dossier, I was just a poor college student surviving on scholarships and part-time jobs. This sprawling two-hundred-acre estate should have intimidated someone who'd "never seen luxury."
If only he knew that these Baroque fountains and overly manicured hedges would barely qualify as a practice corner for apprentice gardeners at the Constantine family estate.
"Close your eyes if the view offends you."
Corvis caught my indifference and spoke coldly, "Drop the 'money means nothing to me' act. Remember, once you enter these doors, you represent the Croft family. Lose that poverty-stricken air."
I turned to face him, meeting his gaze calmly: "Mr. Croft, poverty is a state of mind, not a bank balance. By the way, that Persian-style carpet? Machine-woven replica. Your taste isn't quite as expensive as you think."
Corvis was caught off guard by the retort, momentarily speechless.
Just then, the car stopped. The butler opened the door, his respectful tone carrying a hint of tension: "Sir, Miss Bella has been waiting for quite some time."
At the mention of "Bella," Corvis's brow furrowed.
Bella Moore, the city's acknowledged "Future Mrs. Croft." Apparently, my first boss battle had begun.
…
Ten minutes later at the formal dinner table.
The dining room was saturated with Chanel No. 5. Bella, wearing a red designer bodycon dress, sat at Corvis's left like a peacock marking territory. Meanwhile, I was "accidentally" seated at the far end of the table by the butler.
"Oh my," Bella covered her mouth in feigned surprise, "Corvis, you didn't mention that this… Miss Nora would be joining us? Had I known, I wouldn't have requested an entirely French menu."
She pushed aside a handwritten menu in French, speaking with nauseating superiority: "Miss Nora probably can't read this, right? Some ingredients simply don't appear in fast food establishments. Butler, perhaps get her an English version, or… maybe some chicken nuggets?"
Corvis sat at the head of the table, swirling his whiskey, watching me with amused eyes.
He wanted to see how I'd "play along."
I simply picked up the menu and glanced at it with perfect composure.
The appetizer was pan-seared scallops with caviar, the main course black truffle foie gras.
"That won't be necessary, Miss Moore."
I closed the menu, my tone as steady as if in a board meeting. "While I do enjoy burgers, three years working at a Michelin restaurant taught me these words quite well."
Bella snorted: "What good is knowing words? Some taste is cultivated over generations, not learned by washing dishes."
She turned to the butler, chin raised haughtily: "Open the 1982 Lafite. Only this king of wines deserves to accompany tonight's black truffle foie gras."
The butler was about to move.
"Wait."
I suddenly spoke up.
Bella glared at me impatiently: "What now?"
I looked at her, my gaze direct and piercing: "Miss Moore, if you're showcasing wealth, the '82 Lafite works perfectly. But if you're after taste, you're heading for disaster."
The room fell silent. Corvis paused mid-cut, raising his head with interest.
I continued, neither humble nor arrogant:
"The '82 Lafite has powerful tannins and robust structure—ideal for red meat. Foie gras, with its delicate richness, would clash with those tannins, creating an unpleasant metallic taste that would completely overwhelm its subtle sweetness."
I turned to the butler with a polite nod: "For foie gras, I'd recommend the 1990 Château d'Yquem Sauternes. Its acidity and sweetness perfectly balance the fat—that's the professional pairing."
After speaking, I looked at Bella's ashen face and smiled slightly:
"Of course, this is merely advice from a 'working girl.' I've just overheard countless true connoisseurs lamenting such nouveau riche pairings while serving them."
"You…" Bella stood up, fuming, "You dare call me nouveau riche? What would a pauper like you know?!"
"Change the wine."
Corvis gave the order, his voice low and commanding.
"Remove the Lafite. As she suggested, open a bottle of the '90 d'Yquem."
The butler gave me a long look, bowing respectfully: "Yes, sir. Miss Nora's suggestion is… remarkably informed."
Round one to me. Bella threw down her napkin and stormed out.
Under Corvis's scrutinizing gaze, I calmly cut into my foie gras.
"Which restaurant did you work at?" Corvis suddenly asked.
"Several," I replied without looking up, the lies flowing smoothly. "I've done whatever it took to pay tuition and start my business. Mr. Croft, being poor doesn't equal being ignorant. If you're willing to learn, even washing dishes teaches you something."
Corvis narrowed his eyes, clearly weighing how much of my story to believe.
…
Nightfall brought deathly silence to the estate.
I lay restless in the unfamiliar bed. After years on firm mattresses, this sudden luxury felt strange.
Then, at 2 AM, came the faintest footsteps in the hallway.
Barely audible, accompanied by a subtle, cloying scent.
Bella?
Still awake at this hour?
My instincts screamed that something was wrong.
The footsteps headed toward the study at the corridor's end—Corvis's forbidden sanctuary.
Barefoot, I slipped out of bed and followed silently.
The study door was ajar, a faint blue light seeping through.
Just as I leaned in for a better look, a large hand shot out from the darkness behind me, clamping over my mouth!
"Mmph!"
In the darkness, Corvis's face loomed inches from mine, his skin still damp from a shower, wearing nothing but a towel.
"Shh."
He trapped me between his body and the wall.
"Sneaking around my study in the middle of the night. Finally showing your true colors, Nora?"
He'd been watching me all along.
Keeping my cool, I pried his hand away and whispered:
"Are you blind? Can't you smell it?"
"What?" Corvis frowned.
"Perfume."
I pointed to the partially open door. "Aldehydes and ylang-ylang, with rose and jasmine middle notes. Chanel No. 5. Only one person in this entire estate wears it that heavily—your precious Bella."
Corvis paused, his nostrils flaring slightly.
Sure enough, that sickly sweet fragrance lingered in the air, drifting from the study.
"She has access to the study. She has permission."
I scoffed quietly: "Having access is one thing. Sneaking in at this hour is quite another."
Corvis's expression darkened instantly—he understood my implication.
Just then came the unmistakable sound of keyboard typing, crystal clear in the night's silence.
"Seems your house is on fire, fiancé. That woman who claims to love you is tampering with your computer as we speak."
Corvis looked down at me, his expression complex.
Our position was uncomfortably intimate—his half-naked body pressing against mine, my hands against his chest, our heartbeats audible in the cramped darkness.
Surprisingly, he didn't rush in but leaned closer, his nose nearly touching mine, voice deep and husky:
"Nora, a 'working girl' who knows fine wine, runs her own company, and stays this composed… who exactly are you?"
My heart skipped a beat, but I maintained my composure, meeting his gaze:
"I told you—to survive, I've learned everything I could. In this cutthroat world, you either get smart or get buried."
"Is that so?"
Corvis stared at my lips for two seconds, his eyes unreadable.
Finally, he released me, opened the door, and strode toward the study.
"OUT!"
His roar echoed down the hallway.
Panicked screams and crashing sounds erupted from the study.
I leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching the clichéd caught-in-the-act drama about to unfold.
