Sunday, 2:05 PM
Upper Balcony → East Wing Lounge – Valentino Estate
"—You're right about lithium exports collapsing in the southern corridor," Jonathan Barrett said, setting down a cut-glass tumbler of orange lime spritz. "But that makes the northern copper-belt industry volatile. It won't hold the supply chain for high-demand AIs longer than a year. You agree?"
Ethan leaned forward calmly, one leg crossed. "Only if you're betting long. Most AIs being commissioned now aren't coded for elemental scarcity. They're template-dependent—general cognitive. Meaning once they're distributed, they'll only need performance patches, not full-scale retraining."
Marco clicked his tongue, impressed. "So patchwork logic trumps foundational reboots?"
"Not always," Ethan said. "But it's cheaper. Safer. And for most corporations, risk management isn't about brilliance—it's about… predictability."
Barrett gave a low hum, eyes narrowed with appreciation. His ring finger tapped against the metal armrest of the chair. "You studied economics?"
"No."
"Combat strategy?"
Ethan smirked faintly. "A little."
Barrett chuckled. "Sharp head. Too composed for twenty."
Amilia, reclining just beyond them, let her pale gaze drift lazily over Ethan from the corner of her eye. Her presence had become a subtle force field. Hair now damp from sun and oil, her white silk wrap clung to her curves like condensation on frosted glass. She hadn't spoken in the last ten minutes—but her silence was radiant.
Jonathan leaned back. "You'd be wasted outside the trade floor. Ever consider Business Administration? Tech syndicates? Even… something as primal as sponsored fights? I know several clubs in Europe. You'd get offers overnight."
Ethan smiled slowly, carefully. "I'm… exploring. For now."
Barrett recognized the veiled no and gave a knowing nod. He liked people who didn't say too much. Amilia tilted her head slightly. She was watching Ethan—not like a woman tempted—but like one studying a possible future headline.
At 3:00 PM, Marco stretched and stood.
"All right, gentlemen," he said, brushing off the sand from his linen shorts. "Sun's been our wine. Let's not collapse like poets. Rest. Regroup in two hours. Rooms are prepped west and south tiers."
Jonathan rose gracefully and took Amilia's hand with ritual habit. They moved through the shaded corridor, the butler following in silent escort.
But Ethan's eyes lingered.
Amilia's back glistened under the fading afternoon gold—her posture perfect, hips unhurried and quite gentle, silk sticking to her like memory. Even John, sprawled on the seat like a drunk teenager, let out a silent whistle of pure awe.
"She's like… carved seduction," he muttered.
Marco nodded with a grin of Mischief.
Ethan didn't respond. But something visceral, buried in his composure, stirred briefly.
West Wing Hallways – 3:24 PM
The estate was eerily calm, as though the sea itself had obeyed Marco's curfew.
Ethan walked alongside John down the stone-tiled hallways. Their rooms were opposite ends of the same wing.
John fumbled for his keycard, then flashed a tired smirk. "See you in a dream or two, buddy."
Ethan waved him off with a smirk. "Sleep horizontal this time."
He kept walking. Quiet. Sharp. The salt air clinging to his breath like static.
His room was near the western edge, nestled between shadowed columns.
He reached for the door.
But—
A hand grabbed his wrist.
Quick. Tight. Swift.
In a blink, he was pulled through a side door and slammed into the wall.
He raised his fist by instinct—
Stopped.
Vivienne.
Wearing that same ivory drape. Eyes unreadable. Breathing calm… too calm.
She didn't say anything for a second. The door clicked behind her.
Ethan's voice was low. Controlled. "Vivienne."
Her reply was a whisper that burned like sand on tongue. "You always react like this? Even when someone just wants to talk?"
"Talk?" he said flatly.
"I saw you watching," she said. "Don't pretend."
"You weren't hiding," he answered, looking into her gaze. "Neither am I."
There was a charged silence.
Vivienne stepped back, pacing. Her arms crossed under her chest, posture sharp but oddly restless.
"Marco… cares for me," she said.
"That wasn't the question."
"You think you know me, Ethan?"
"I don't try to," he said, stepping closer. "I just watch who's not lying."
Her face twitched—anger? guilt? nostalgia? It passed.
"I'm not his," she said suddenly. "Not in the way people think."
"But you let them think it."
"That's not weakness. That's… convenience."
Ethan leaned in, eyes locked. "Convenience doesn't last. It corrupts."
Vivienne's gaze fell for a moment, then she smiled faintly. It wasn't joy—it was defense.
"Still talking in riddles."
"Still hiding behind them."
Neither moved. The air pulsed with restrained emotion. Chemistry. Regret. Heat.
Then Ethan's tone softened. "I'm not here to ruin you."
"I know," she whispered.
He stepped back. Smiled gently.
And left without waiting for closure.
Ethan's Room – 3:42 PM
Cool sheets. Grey interiors. Minimalist.
He tossed his shirt aside, sat near the window with his mobile in hand and staring towards rich guys , models and political leaders who was enjoying at beachside and at tent with wines and rumms.
"Some men are born with crowns.
Others must steal thrones."
He paused.
The screen of his phone lit up.
One message.
Leona Joey [03:46 P.M.]:"If you don't answer by night or at party, I might lose patience. Don't test me, Mystery Man."
Ethan exhaled through his nose—half grin, half intrigue. Falling on comfy bed than usual, Knowing that this night is long .
Tomorrow could wait.
Tonight, the wolves were circling.