The office on the top floor of the Delacroix Capital headquarters in the 16th arrondissement of Paris was like a cold sanctuary suspended above the city's clamor. Outside the massive floor-to-ceiling windows, the Eiffel Tower began to sparkle in the twilight, and the Seine River wound through the heart of the city like a gilded ribbon. Yet, the air inside was as still as ice; luxurious materials and minimalist lines outlined an undeniable sense of authority and distance.
Léon Delacroix stood by the window, his back straight and solitary. He had just finished an intercontinental video conference. The screen still showed the fluctuating numbers and curves of the global financial market, but his deep gaze was fixed on a short report displayed on the tablet in his hand.
The report was from Max. It was about the "disappeared" Gallardo fiancée—Aria Russell, or as she now called herself, "Lia Russell."
There were several blurry surveillance screenshots: a girl in a cheap hoodie and black-rimmed glasses, head bowed, hurrying into the doorway of a dilapidated apartment building in the 18th arrondissement of Paris. Another showed her in a dirty Chinese supermarket's backyard, struggling to push a heavy cardboard box onto a cart. Her profile in the dim light appeared extraordinarily pale and thin, a stark contrast to the timid, wealthy fiancée in a champagne-colored gown at the Barcelona gala just a few months ago.
The report's details were cold and precise: alias Lia Russell, current address (a notorious shared apartment), dire financial straits, currently working as a night stocker at a "Wangwang Supermarket," with daily cash payments. A note at the end of the report stated that the Gallardo side was still privately searching for her but had made no progress. The Spanish media's focus had shifted to Gallardo Construction's financial and legal crisis.
Léon's fingertips tapped lightly on the cold edge of the tablet, the rhythm steady and emotionless. His gray-green eyes skimmed over the words "night stocker" and "daily cash payments," and a slight, almost imperceptible ripple seemed to pass through the depths of his pupils.
He remembered that night in Barcelona, in the shadows of the club's terrace entrance. In her gray eyes, besides the carefully acted panic, was a deep-seated determination and icy clarity that bordered on desperation, an odd contrast to her fragile appearance. Her small movements, her barely suppressed urgency as she left, as if she had just broken free from something... all of it was at odds with the Gallardo family's public statement that she had "gone to rest due to being overly frightened."
Would a woman who could personally plan and execute such a ruthless attack, then disappear without a trace, be content to do the most menial labor in one of Paris's most chaotic neighborhoods?
This was absolutely not a case of simple "fright" or "disappointment."
She was hiding. She was building up her strength. What was she waiting for?
More importantly, her little trick against the Gallardos, though clumsy, had unexpectedly hit a supplier that had a minor business relationship with one of Delacroix Capital's peripheral subsidiaries (which had been terminated in an emergency). It had caused him a trivial but unpleasant amount of trouble. This made it impossible for him to simply see it as an irrelevant farce.
The rules had been broken. And the one who broke them must either pay the price or show a value that warrants re-evaluation.
He put down the tablet, turned to his desk, and pressed the internal communication button.
"Max."
Almost immediately, Max Bernard appeared in the doorway, efficient and silent. "Sir."
"With Gallardo Construction, maintain your distance. All remaining connections are to be completely severed." Léon's voice was even, showing no preference.
"It is already in progress, sir." Max nodded.
"Additionally," Léon's gaze returned to the blurry surveillance screenshot on the tablet, "find her. Not with the kind of clumsy search the Gallardos are doing. I want to know her detailed movements every day, who she contacts, and what she is trying to do. But do not alarm her."
There was no surprise on Max's face. He simply gave a slight nod. "Understood. I will assign the most discreet people." He hesitated for half a second. "Should we limit her... job opportunities?" He was referring to her supermarket job.
Léon's lips seemed to curl into the slightest downward arc, a hint of a sneer. "No need," he said flatly. "Let her experience the 'reality' of Paris. Just observe how she reacts. When necessary, you can create a small 'setback' for her and see how she responds."
"Yes, sir." Max understood and quietly left.
The office returned to absolute silence. Léon went back to the window, looking down at the sparkling city lights below. The pale figure moving boxes in the storeroom slowly overlapped with the frightened yet resolute figure from the Barcelona gala in his mind.
An interesting game of cat and mouse seemed to have just begun. And he, as always, was in control.
At the same time, Aria's life seemed to be stuck in a muddy loop. At night, she was in the supermarket warehouse with heavy cardboard boxes and the pungent smell of disinfectant. During the day, she struggled to catch up on sleep in her small, windowless, and poorly soundproofed room, her ears filled with the sounds of her roommates' arguments, children crying, and the neighbors' television.
Sleep became a luxury. Fatigue clung to her like a parasite. Her hands quickly developed new blisters, which turned into calluses. Her French was forced to improve rapidly under pressure, at least enough to handle basic moving instructions and the owner's occasional complaints, but it was still far from fluent.
She was like a rat digging tunnels in the dark, humble and vigilant, doing everything she could just to survive and to earn the meager cash that would allow her to continue hiding.
Occasionally, in the early hours of the morning, as she dragged her body back to her apartment building, she would look up at the sky over Paris, which was never truly dark due to the neon lights. A profound loneliness and bewilderment would swallow her whole. The flame of revenge seemed to become distant and blurred with the daily grind, and the instinct to survive took precedence over everything else.
She dared not contact anyone or even use public networks to search for too much information about the Gallardos or Delacroix, afraid of leaving any digital footprints. All her information came from the free newspapers that were dog-eared at the supermarket and the intermittent news on the radio.
One night, the supermarket owner asked her to clean up the pile of cardboard boxes in the backyard. There were no surveillance cameras in the alley. The lighting was dim, with only a single streetlamp casting a faint, yellow glow. She was struggling to tie up the flattened cardboard when two young men in hoodies wandered in, their eyes leering at her with ill intent.
"Hey, new Asian chick? Is it lonely working alone this late?" one of them whistled, taking a step closer.
Aria's heart instantly leapt into her throat. Her hand instinctively tightened around the utility knife she used to cut tape, and her body became tense. She forced herself to stand up straight, trying to make her voice sound calm and not timid. "I'm working. Please leave."
"Oh? Working? Playing with us is also a job..." The other man laughed and reached out to touch her face.
Just as Aria was calculating how to quickly use the knife or cry out for help, a piercing car horn suddenly blared from the alley entrance. A strong white beam of light from the car's headlights shone directly on the two hooligans and her, blinding them.
A sleek black car, which looked ordinary but was clearly an expensive model, silently stopped at the entrance of the alley. The people inside were not visible.
The two men were startled by the sudden interruption. They cursed and shielded their eyes from the light. "Damn it, who is that? Meddling!"
The car window slowly lowered halfway, and a cold, low male voice with an undeniable sense of authority spoke in clear French. "Get lost."
The voice was not loud, but it carried an invisible and chilling pressure.
The two hooligans seemed to be intimidated by the power of the voice. They exchanged a look, saw the car that was clearly not to be messed with, grumbled a few more curses, and then quickly scurried away, disappearing down the other end of the alley.
The car's lights went out, and the window went up. The black car slid away into the night as silently as it had come, disappearing quickly as if it had never been there.
Aria stood frozen in place, her heart pounding. The utility knife in her hand was soaked with sweat. She stared at the alley entrance with a mix of post-danger fear and profound confusion.
Who was that? The voice... it was strangely familiar, but she was certain she did not know anyone who drove that kind of car. Was it a coincidence? Or...?
She shook her head violently, throwing off the absurd thought. It couldn't have been him. How could a person like him appear in a dirty alley like this, and how could he just happen to help her?
It must have been a coincidence. Maybe it was just a regular driver who didn't like hooligans.
But that cold, commanding tone was like a needle, pricking her tightly wound nerves.
In the next few days, she became even more vigilant. She always felt as if a pair of eyes were watching her from the shadows, but every time she turned or looked closely, she found nothing. Was it an illusion caused by too much stress? Or... had the Gallardo family really found her in Paris? Or... was it that possibility she feared the most?
Work at the supermarket suddenly became less smooth. The owner began to find fault more often, complaining that she was not quick enough or hinting that it was "not safe for a girl" to do this kind of work. One time, a batch of new goods was mysteriously stacked in the wrong place, causing a miscount, and the owner scolded her fiercely, almost docking her pay for the day.
Aria endured it silently, working even harder, but her heart was filled with doubts. These "small setbacks" seemed a bit too strange.
She felt like she was walking on an increasingly narrow tightrope, with a bottomless abyss below, and in the darkness, more than one pair of eyes seemed to be watching her, waiting for her next misstep.
The romance and glamour of Paris had nothing to do with her. She was in the cold, hard underbelly of the city. And her path of revenge was filled with more thorns and invisible traps than she could have ever imagined.