The afternoon heat seeped in, thick and stubborn, even through the weary sighs of the air conditioner. The ice cream shop was half full, a low murmur of conversations drifting through the scent of sugar and vanilla. Lin Yue, clumsy in the art of scooping, stumbled near the prep counter. A muffled yelp slipped from her lips as a scoop of strawberry and chocolate dropped squarely onto her white blouse, spreading like a sticky map across her chest.
Adrián, behind the counter, reacted instantly. "Come here," he said, a mix of laughter and concern in his voice as he took her hand. "I've got something in the back that can help."
He led her behind a beaded curtain into a tiny space—barely a closet—with a sink, stacked boxes, and a flickering bulb that cast everything in a yellowish hue. The air was heavy with cleaner and sugar.
"Give me your blouse," he said, his voice lower now.
Flushed to her ears, Lin Yue unbuttoned it with trembling fingers. Her simple bra had taken its share of the damage. Adrián stepped closer, damp cloth in hand—but instead of cleaning, he went still, looking at her. The air between them tightened, crackling. A darker thought crossed his mind: maybe I can't save my family, but I can hurt the hero.
He set the cloth aside and, with deliberate slowness, brushed the edge of the melted ice cream along Lin Yue's cool skin, drawing a shiver from her. Then his lips found hers. It wasn't a gentle kiss—it was hungry, urgent. Adrián's hands moved over her back, down to the fabric of her jeans. Clothing offered no resistance; it vanished between gasps and torn buttons. Soon, both were naked in that narrow refuge, heated bodies pressed against cold metal and ceramic.
Adrián lifted her onto the edge of the sink. She clung to him, inexperienced, giving herself completely. "It's my first time," she murmured against his neck—a confession that only fueled his desire.
He let himself be carried by it. The first thrust was rough, almost painful, but it soon gave way to a flood of overwhelming sensation. Lin Yue's moans filled the small room—sharp, uncontrollable—blending with the rhythmic sound of bodies against metal. Each movement pulled a new cry from her, every touch like an electric surge.
Out in the shop, Clara served a milkshake with an automatic smile. Then she froze. The sounds from the back room were unmistakable—moans, the dull rhythm against the sink. Her smile stiffened, twisting into a look of embarrassment and resignation. That pig, my brother, she thought, jaw tight.
With a sharp motion, she turned up the music. A pop chorus nearly drowned out the noise. "Music up, everyone!" she called, forcing cheer into her voice. "We're celebrating today!" She knew she had to do something—soundproof better, anything to keep the scandal from ruining her business.
At one of the tables, Ye Fen heard everything. Every gasp, every cry. He went rigid, his drink frozen halfway to his lips, his heart shattering. He recognized Lin Yue's voice. The love he felt for her turned acidic, burning through his stomach. The blaring music felt like an insult—a useless curtain over the drama. No man should have to hear this, he told himself, rage and pain pushing him to the edge. He drained his drink, left cash on the table, and walked out of the shop like someone fleeing a personal fire.
Outside, the night air did nothing to ease the heat in his chest.It wasn't just jealousy.It was humiliation.And humiliation, when it finds no outlet, looks for power.
That same night, someone decided the Valmonts would learn what it meant to lose.
The market opening was the first visible blow.
At 9:02 a.m., Valmont Group shares fell 4%.By 9:17, the drop reached 9%.At 10:03, analysts were already calling it "structural volatility."
On financial channels, the name Valmont was no longer spoken with admiration, but with caution.
—Rising reputational risk.—Ongoing tax investigation.—International accounting discrepancies.
Nothing definitive. Nothing criminal.But enough.
Across regional offices, CFOs requested precautionary liquidity lines. Two banks triggered review clauses. One institutional fund temporarily suspended its exposure to the holding.
The domino effect wasn't explosive.It was clinical.
Max watched the real-time charts. Red candles stretched like a slow hemorrhage. His system projected scenarios:
Probability of losing public contracts: 48%Probability of credit downgrade: 61%Internal board tension: 74%
He didn't need to destroy them.Just stretch them to the breaking point.
At headquarters, the boardroom was no longer silent—it was tight with strain.
"If we don't stabilize today, we lose the Asian line tomorrow," the CFO warned."The general press is already asking questions," added the legal director.
Henri said nothing.
He stared at the screen as the shares kept falling.
12%.14%.
His phone vibrated endlessly—banks, political allies, international partners.
For the first time in years, no one was asking for his advice.They were asking for guarantees.
And he didn't have them.
When the meeting ended, he walked alone to his office and locked the door. Silence settled in completely.
He dropped into his chair.
His hands trembled slightly as he ran them through his hair.
His family had survived the fall of the nobility.They had adapted ahead of others during the Industrial Revolution.They had quietly financed both sides in the world wars—and come out stronger.
The Valmonts weren't a company.
They were a structure.An organism that evolved under attack.
This… couldn't be the end.
His gaze shifted to the lower drawer of his desk.
Inside—a black folder.
Phoenix Protocol.Internal name.An old name.
What some circles called, half in jest, half in reverence:
The Apocalypse Plan.
Automatic transfers to invisible jurisdictions.Activation of dormant holdings.Strategic liquidation of exposed assets.Sacrificing public pieces to protect the core.
If he triggered it, the world would watch Valmont Holdings collapse.
But the dynasty would survive.
Henri closed his eyes.
No.Not yet.
Activating it now would mean admitting they had lost control. And he still had room.
He could negotiate.Absorb losses.Sacrifice reputation—temporarily.
He opened his eyes. The tremor in his hands was gone.
"This isn't the end," he murmured. "It's just a purge."
He stood, picked up the phone.
"Call an emergency board. Level-three containment. Immediate liquidity, partial buyback, accelerated public audit."
His voice no longer shook.
Somewhere in the city, Max smiled as the buyback tried to slow the fall.
"They're holding," he whispered.
But a new projection appeared on his board:
Alternate scenario detected: Phoenix Protocol activation — 27% probability.
Max narrowed his eyes.
That wasn't in the plan.
And for the first time since the game began, he realized something dangerous:
He wasn't playing against a company.
He was playing against a dynasty that had practiced survival for centuries.
In the Valmont tower, Henri looked out over the city.
They had survived kings, revolutions, wars.
An invisible financial attack wouldn't destroy them.
But it would force them to transform.
And the Valmonts had always been more dangerous after transformation.
But every transformation demands visible sacrifices.
The seizure came without drama.
No sirens.No cameras.No scandal.
Just a cold notification from finance:
"Preventive liquidation of non-strategic assets to reinforce immediate liquidity."
Adrián read it twice.
Non-strategic assets.
He went down to the private garage.
The red Ferrari—his Ferrari—shone under the white lights, immaculate, arrogant, perfectly useless in a crisis.
A man in a reflective vest checked a tablet.
"Mr. Valmont? We're here for the vehicle."
Adrián blinked.
"Excuse me?"
"Internal liquidation order. High-value asset, low operational priority."
Adrián looked at the car.Then the man.Then the car again.
"No."
The operator hesitated.
"Sir, I have signed authorization from finance."
"I am finance."
The man glanced at the tablet.
"You're no longer listed as an active authority."
Silence.
Adrián approached the Ferrari like a patient in critical condition. He placed a hand on the hood, almost protective.
"Not my baby."
The operator cleared his throat.
"Sir, it's just a car."
Adrián looked at him like he had insulted his entire lineage.
"It's a Ferrari."
"Yes. 812 Superfast."
"Exactly."
The tow platform began to lower.
Adrián reacted like they were dismantling art.
"Wait. Have you considered selling the board's watches first? Or the secondary jet? Or the useless administrative wing?"
"The jet is under review. The car is more liquid."
That word.
Liquid.
The Ferrari began to climb the ramp.
Without thinking, Adrián grabbed the door.
"No. No. No. It's not strategic, but it's emotionally structural."
The operator gave him a look of professional sympathy.
"Sir, if you fall, insurance won't cover dignity."
Adrián let go, forcing composure as the car was lifted.
No roaring engine. No epic moment.
Just the hydraulic hum of the platform rising.
From the second-floor balcony, Clara watched with crossed arms.
"Brother… is this part of the 'master plan'?"
Adrián didn't answer.
He just watched the Ferrari secured in place.
One less symbol.
A tangible reminder that the crisis was no longer abstract.
The driver shut the gate.
"Would you like to say goodbye?"
Adrián met his gaze, cold again.
"Just make sure the buyer has taste."
The truck pulled away.
Adrián stood in the empty garage.
For the first time since the collapse began, he felt something worse than financial pressure.
Visible vulnerability.
Above, in a window, Henri watched in silence.
He said nothing.
But he understood what his son still refused to admit:
When you start selling symbols, the war is no longer preventive.
It's survival.
Adrián watched until the red disappeared at the end of the avenue.
The garage felt empty.
Too empty.
For a few seconds, he did nothing.
Then he took out his phone.
Dialed a number not listed in any corporate directory.
"You still owe me a favor?" he asked, without greeting.
Silence. Then a brief laugh.
"Depends how big."
Adrián didn't look away from the street.
"Internal auction. Seized asset this morning. Ferrari 812 Superfast. I want you to buy it."
"In whose name?"
A brief pause.
There it was—the transformation.
"Not under Valmont."
The wind stirred his jacket.
"A. V. Holdings. Private. No public link."
"That'll cost."
"Pay it. Add twenty percent above estimated value. I don't want it contested."
Silence again. Calculation.
"Done."
Adrián hung up.
The Ferrari wouldn't return as a family symbol.
It would return as a personal asset.
Invisible to the board.Untouchable by liquidity protocols.
From the balcony, Clara watched him.
"Moving on already?"
Adrián slipped the phone away.
"Never sell something you can buy back under a different name."
He didn't smile.
But the humiliation was gone.
Replaced by something sharper.
Learning.
If the family was entering a phase of transformation, so was he.
If they were going to teach him how to survive without the surname—
he would start today.