I Slapped My Fiancé—Then Married His Billionaire Nemesis
Chapter 211 - 212 Tempting Offer

Chapter 211: Chapter 212 Tempting Offer

By the time Daniel and I made it to the shuttle, it was exactly ten.

We weren’t even the last ones.

Half the group trickled in like they’d just rolled out of bed.

We didn’t leave for the venue until ten-thirty.

The morning was back-to-back showroom visits.

Too many logos, too many staged smiles, all blending into one long blur of beige carpet and mood lighting.

After lunch, they herded us into a conference room for back-to-back brand talks.

The chairs were hard, the AC was too warm, and the woman behind me kept rustling a plastic bag like she was trying to smuggle a raccoon out of there.

Near the end, I noticed one of the staff leading a tall man to the front row.

I hadn’t seen him yesterday, definitely would’ve remembered.

Broad shoulders, clean navy suit, hair trimmed just long enough to look expensive.

He looked familiar.

I pulled out my phone and typed fast.

‘Fabrizio Marchetti,’ I murmured.

Daniel leaned in. ‘Holy shit. Valmont & Cie’s CEO? I just watched his interview. He was in Milan, like, three days ago.’

Valmont was the kind of brand that didn’t do logos.

Just clean lines and five-digit price tags.

Marchetti was the youngest exec they’d ever had, and every article about him called it a fluke, which only made him more smug and more famous.

Women in Europe apparently queued outside airports just for the chance to get a blurry selfie.

If they’d put his name on the programme, tickets would’ve sold out in an hour.

The speaker on stage kept talking, something about material sourcing, but no one was listening anymore.

Half the room craned their necks.

A few bold ones had already crept up to the front and started whispering at him.

He handed out business cards.

I watched, gripping the armrest.

I wanted a word with him too, but barging in mid-session would’ve looked desperate.

As soon as it ended, I started to stand.

He got up first.

And walked straight towards me.

‘Miss Vance,’ he said, extending his hand. ‘A pleasure.’

I blinked, then grabbed it quickly. ‘Hi—hello.’

He was tall, lean.

His eyes were dark, hooded by long lashes, the kind that made it hard to tell what he was thinking.

His accent curled just slightly around the edges of each word.

I stood there, suddenly unsure where to look.

‘I’ve followed your work for a while now. One of our designers competed at Riverbend. We only placed third. Your piece stood out. Clearly.’

I swallowed. ‘That’s very generous of you.’

He smiled again. ‘I’d like to keep in touch. Would you mind if we exchanged details?’

My spine straightened on instinct.

Fabrizio Marchetti didn’t ask for contacts.

People lined up to shove theirs into his hand.

‘Yes, of course.’

I reached for my phone—then remembered.

Shit. I’d only just replaced the lost one.

Half the apps weren’t installed yet.

I still didn’t have a SIM card.

I looked up. ‘I just lost my phone. This is a backup. I can give you my number, or if you’d rather, leave yours and I’ll text when I’m up and running.’

I read it out.

He typed it in.

Then he pulled out a sleek black business card holder, flicked it open, and handed me one with a flick of his wrist.

From the inside pocket of his jacket, he took out a silver pen and scribbled something across the back.

‘That’s my direct line. The one printed is the office.’

‘Thanks.’ I took it.

The paper was thick and cool between my fingers.

Fabrizio capped his pen, glanced around.

Most of the guests had already left.

The rest were hovering in the background, hoping for a word with him.

The lights over the exhibit dimmed slightly, and the last bits of champagne and canapés were being cleared from the tables near the back wall.

‘They’re probably closing up,’ he said. ‘Walk with me?’

‘Sure.’ I motioned towards the exit. ‘After you, sir.’

He headed for the door with smooth, long strides and spoke over his shoulder. ‘You’re twenty-four, right? If you don’t mind me asking.’

‘Twenty-three,’ I corrected.

He looked back briefly. ‘I’m twelve years older than you, then. You can stop calling me “sir”, you’re ageing me in real time.’

I laughed. ‘You don’t look it.’

‘Flattered.’ He tilted his head. ‘Though someone said the corners of my eyes are getting lines.’

I glanced up at his face.

His skin looked taut, jaw clean-shaven, no visible creases. ‘They lied.’

He gave a short laugh. ‘Appreciated, Miss Vance.’

I was starting to like him.

On stage or in interviews, he always looked stiff and controlled.

In private, he was far more personable.

As we reached the doors, he said, ‘I meant it, by the way. I think your work’s exceptional. I heard you just left your old firm. If you’re open to it, I’d like to offer you a position. Lead designer tier. Full resources, top billing. You’d have complete freedom.’

So there it was. The real reason he’d come over.

I’d guessed it the second he pulled out the pen.

Still, it felt unreal.

Valmont & Cie wasn’t just another jewellery house.

They poached the best.

Getting through their doors meant instant leverage.

Even a short stint there could rewrite your entire CV.

You didn’t apply to Valmont. You got invited.

I was tempted. Of course I was tempted.

But I’d just registered my own studio, taken on two private commissions, and agreed to a high jewellery capsule for a boutique in Midtown.

I couldn’t just drop everything and vanish to France, no matter how glossy the offer.

Fabrizio must’ve clocked my silence.

‘I know you’ve started your own studio,’ he said smoothly. ‘You probably don’t want to give that up. So how about something looser? A collaboration, maybe. A joint line. We’ve started planning next year’s autumn–winter collection. Would you be interested?’