Chapter 7: At the Presume, Fate Shall Be Unlocked
Frances stepped out of Macedonia Airport and into her Versace jeep, the soft click of her heels against the pavement echoing her calm confidence. Her gray pantsuit clung perfectly to her frame—crisp, professional, unyielding—while her hair fell straight down her back, sleek and disciplined. Bianca carefully closed the door behind her, a quiet reminder that she was not entirely alone.
"Ervin, drive straight to Luce Group. After the meeting, we'll visit our company here," Frances instructed, her voice steady, precise.
"Yes, ma'am," he answered promptly.
She sank into the seat, letting the city lights blur into streaks of gold and white as the car moved. Macedonia. New territory. New challenges. And perhaps, old ghosts ready to stir. The thought sent a thrill through her.
Meanwhile, Stafford Raymond sat in his office, studying the reports from Luce Group. Frances Lin. The name crossed his mind like an uninvited ghost, and he couldn't suppress a small, wicked smile. The idea of seeing her again, of making her wait, filled him with a sharp thrill.
"Boss, it's time for the meeting. The other parties are already present," Sky said, stepping into the room.
Raymond picked up a pen, hesitated, and finally said, "Tell them I'll be there in a few minutes."
Sky almost laughed, confused by his intentions, but the deadly glare that followed silenced any amusement.
When Raymond finally entered the meeting room, the air seemed to shift. Every step he took was deliberate, measured—a predator among mortals. Attendees stood as a mark of respect, yet Frances remained seated, composed, letting the soft rustle of papers be her shield.
"Mr. Raymond, this is poor etiquette," she said, her voice calm but edged with annoyance. "Teaching your staff to keep guests waiting is hardly the best first impression."
His gaze flicked to her, low and dangerous. "Miss Frances," he said, drawing out her name with deliberate emphasis. "Long time no see. Is this how you speak to your beloved husband—the woman who ran away, leaving me for so long?"
Frances did not flinch. Her eyes remained locked on his as she flipped through the contract in her hands. No one here knew about their registered marriage, and she intended to keep it that way.
"I see," she said, letting her words carry the weight of steel. "Is this how you treat your partnering companies?" she added carefully, redirecting the focus.
A wicked smile tugged at his lips.
"We can discuss personal matters later, right?" she said firmly, refusing to show any hint of being rattled.
Her pulse was steady, her mind sharp. With a single word, she cut through the tension choking the room.
"Attention."
The sound of her voice echoed like a command. Chairs stilled. Pens paused. Even breaths seemed suspended.
From the corner of her eye, she saw Raymond widen his smile—slow, sharp, entertained. He glanced at her briefly, then tore his gaze away, as if her boldness stung pleasantly.
"Let's begin the meeting, Mr. Raymond," she said deliberately, emphasizing his name as a silent warning.
Everyone sat. The room was thick with stares and whispers.
"Hey… what relationship does she have with him?" one of his staff whispered.
Frances turned sharply, her eyes burning. "It's better you focus on why you're here. Otherwise, leave."
Silence fell instantly.
"Alright, we can begin," Raymond said at last.
The meeting stretched on for long, exhausting hours. He and Frances clashed over every suggestion, every point, every angle, as if even the simplest decision required a battle of wills. Yet, after countless debates that felt like subtle warfare, they reached a conclusion everyone could accept.
When the room emptied, Frances headed toward her car. She was halfway in when she checked her bag. Something was missing.
"Bianca, did you see anything fall from my bag earlier?" she asked quickly.
"No, ma'am. Nothing," Bianca replied.
"Wait here. I'll check the meeting room," Frances said, anxiety tightening her chest. She hurried back, her steps fast and desperate. This was no ordinary loss—the item she searched for held consequences that could ruin her.
Every seat. Every corner. Under the table. On the floor.
"Please… don't let it be what I'm thinking," she whispered.
Then a cold, calm voice shattered the silence.
"Is this what you're looking for?"
She froze. That voice. Of all people, why him again?
She forced herself to stand, schooling her expression into a polite, gentle smile. "Hello, Mr. Raymond. How may I help you?"
He did not answer. He walked to a chair, sat down like a king claiming territory, and brought out a small glass container holding a tobacco wrap.
"How may I help you, Miss? You lost something?" he asked, lighting the tobacco effortlessly. Smoke curled into the air, cold and sharp.
"I'm fine, Mr. Raymond. I'll be on my way," she said, smiling again as she walked toward the door.
A small red card sailed through the air, landing at her feet.
"Are you looking for this?" he asked.
Frances bent down slowly, fingers trembling as she closed around it. Their marriage card. The one from the bureau.
"Thanks…" she whispered, forcing a weak smile.
Raymond stood, eyes locked on her, voice a dangerous calm. "I never forget your debt. And I'll make sure you pay for everything."
Her blood ran cold. Living in Lichfield, she had learned truths about him meant only for whispered legends. Not just a mafia, but a head. A king. A man whose name made crime lords bow.
"If it's the money, I'll pay you. Send me your account details, and I'll transfer it immediately," she said, hoping to defuse the tension.
He didn't respond. She turned to leave. Then his laughter cracked through the room, rich and mocking.
"Hahahaha… I don't want your money. You can't repay me with money."
Her heart stopped. He stepped closer, eyes piercing, voice unyielding. "Just follow the marriage agreement you started."
He dropped the tobacco and crushed it under his shoe.
Her lips parted in disbelief. She laughed lightly, dismissive, pretending he was joking. She left the room without looking back, but his gaze burned into her. Deep inside, she knew one thing: he was serious. Dead serious.
Elsewhere, in the expansive living room of the Berish family, Charlotte sliced an apple, savoring each bite as the sweetness lingered. She was a Mrs. now, yet a heaviness gnawed at her thoughts. She needed Marcus's attention soon.
"Here he is," she murmured, noticing him descending the stairs.
"Darling, what's wrong? You don't look yourself," Marcus asked, knotting his tie with casual precision.
Charlotte arched a brow. "Babe, I should ask you—why are you heading to the company at this hour?"
"My work isn't much at the company today," he replied, plucking an apple from the bowl.
She leaned closer, dropping her words deliberately. "I got news—though I'm not sure it's true—that Frances is back."
Marcus raised an eyebrow, shrugging. "What? How is that possible? Why would she come back all of a sudden?"
Charlotte smiled, concealing the sharpness in her gaze. "Babe, what does that have to do with us? As long as you want me… no one can take you away."
Marcus laughed, clearly charmed by her act. Charlotte's lips curved in a coquettish grin. "She could become a hindrance in the future. I think we should just… take care of her."
Marcus considered her tone. "Alright, babe. Tell me your plans."
Elsewhere, in a dimly lit office, Lupin presented a photo to Harry. The image was of a striking woman—radiant, composed, and captivating enough to make even Harry pause.
"Hmm. We'll work on her," Harry said, puffing on his tobacco. "Monitor her closely. She's back in Macedonia."
"Yes, boss. She won't escape our notice," Lupin replied, bowing.
Three of Harry's men had already fallen to Stafford Raymond's reach. Letting her go unnoticed was out of the question. If Raymond intended to hold onto her, Harry would ensure she became a pawn in the game.