“See you tomorrow evening, Eleanor.”
“See you tomorrow.” Li Yaru waved the tulips gently. “Thanks for the flowers. If you send me any more, I won’t accept them.”
Lorenzo caught the refusal but smiled, “One bouquet is enough. I just hope you’ll remember it.”
The Roman encounter was left in Rome—whether it was a fleeting crush or an eternal memory, it couldn’t be taken away.
Lorenzo watched the car carrying the woman and tulips slowly drive off.
He pulled out a pack of cigarettes from his suit pocket, bit one, lowered his eyes, and lit it.
Back at the hotel, Li Yaru placed the tulips in a vase and took a photo to commemorate them before heading to the bathroom for a shower.
Washing away the dust and sweat refreshed her spirit. Still in her bathrobe, she began unpacking the many gift boxes—shirts, leather shoes, ties, socks, brooches, men’s cologne, sunglasses…
All gifts for Zhuang Qiting—she had truly spoiled him. After all, he only slept with her four or five times; where else could he find such a generous, beautiful, and tasteful golden mommy?
Thinking of Zhuang Qiting, Li Yaru’s intuition pricked—why had he been silent all day? Just yesterday, he would text her every few hours asking what she was doing.
She pulled out her phone and opened their chat. Their last message was from 9 a.m. Rome time. Frowning, she rolled her eyes and exited the chat.
The next day, 6 p.m.
Li Yaru arrived punctually at the address on the Invitation Letter. It was Kurt’s family’s seaside estate in Ostia, Rome.
The sun had nearly set, the sky a deep, silent cobalt blue. Seagulls skimmed over the waves, and the sea breeze tousled Li Yaru’s simply styled hair.
Tonight, she dressed elegantly—an emerald green evening gown hugging her mature curves.
Even her lipstick was a rich reddish-brown, accentuating her mature aura, no longer a girl in her twenties but a noble woman just past thirty.
She had deliberately dressed older to prevent Kurt from joking about her age.
But when Kurt saw her, his obsession blazed like a roaring fire. He spread his arms wide to embrace her.
“My Rose of the Serengeti, you look incomparable tonight. If only I had a sister as beautiful as you.”
Li Yaru couldn’t stand the exaggerated brat and said in Cantonese, “Why don’t you just recognize me as your mother?”
Kurt was surprised. “What? Eleanor! Is that your local language?”
“I said, Kurt, you’re really cute,” Li Yaru smiled.
Kurt introduced her to his parents as a close friend he had met in the Serengeti, the muse of his paintings.
Li Yaru exchanged polite greetings and presented gifts for Kurt before finding an excuse to slip away.
A wide green lawn was set with banquet tables and draperies; crystal chandeliers swayed in the cobalt night.
The guests were all locals—Kurt’s friends, some old family friends, and a few nobles wearing family crests on their chests.
Li Yaru did not know these local dignitaries. After finding her name card and sitting down, she rested her chin on her hand, leisurely observing the surroundings.
A live band played: the piano’s melody was clear, the cello’s deep notes soothing.
Some enthusiastic guests took to the open space to dance.
Zhuang Qiting still hadn’t contacted her. Li Yaru could no longer bear the strange silence and tentatively texted him: [Zhuang Qiting, are you dead?]
Zhuang Qiting had just stepped off a private plane. His polished shoes tapped the stairs, stepping into the cobalt night.
He wore a meticulously tailored black satin suit for the dinner, his broad shoulders filling it out perfectly.
His steps were decisive as he descended, the outline of well-toned muscles faintly visible beneath his trousers.
The alert Shen Mi followed his brisk pace.
Outside the plane stairs waited several Maybachs, not Zhuang Qiting’s own men but sent by the Cornelius d’Aquila family.
“Good evening, Mr. Zhuang,” the uniformed driver opened the door for him.
Zhuang Qiting nodded and settled into the car.
His phone buzzed. He took it out and saw Li Yaru’s message. A cold smile curled at the corner of his lips.
The little one was asking if he was dead.
She didn’t know she was driving him mad. While she was in Rome for three days, she had hugged the little fox, accepted flowers from a wild man, and run hand in hand with another stranger on the street, acting as if shooting a romantic movie!
If he didn’t come soon, she might next find some wild man to serve her.
Zhuang Qiting had no intention of replying and slipped the phone inside his suit jacket.
The car headed toward the seaside estate in Ostia.
By now, the dinner party was in full swing. After the main course, guests shared cake and fine wine, chatting and laughing.
Li Yaru nibbled on mocha-flavored birthday cake, her thoughts drifting.
The lack of news was unheard of before, and her frustration gradually turned to unease—had something happened to Zhuang Qiting?
She texted Li Guanjia: [Is the young master sick?] Then she realized with a start it was midnight on Hong Kong Island and scolded herself for being paranoid.
After the cake was served, a middle-aged gentleman stepped onto the lawn and announced the upcoming auction of Kurt’s personal paintings.
The auction featured twelve pieces from the exhibition, with all proceeds going to African wildlife protection.
One piece depicted wildebeests crossing the river in the Serengeti, titled The Gallop of Life, with a starting bid of fifty thousand euros.
Many guests raised their paddles—some out of curiosity, some to curry favor with the Cornelius family, others admiring Kurt’s artistic talent, and some eyeing his commercial potential as an art investment.
The price quickly climbed to one hundred thousand euros, and Li Yaru won the bid at two hundred thousand.
For a young artist, selling a painting for two hundred thousand euros not only boosted reputation but also expanded commercial value, successfully entering the ranks of well-known New Wave Artists.
Although pure artists often scorned commercial value, it was undeniably a crucial benchmark in the art market.
Someone paying for the work meant it deserved appreciation.
Next, Li Yaru bid three hundred thousand euros for another Serengeti Series piece—an adorable, not-so-fierce cheetah family.
A subtle commotion stirred in the crowd. Many guests glanced at the mysterious, noble Eastern woman with such generosity.
The auction proceeded smoothly with exciting highs.
Soon, sixteen lots were brought out and covered with black cloth.
The veil was lifted, revealing the woman’s gorgeous face blending into the night’s deep darkness.
This was the painting that had stolen the spotlight at today’s exhibition opening—titled Everything Boiling.
Kurt was hiding in the crowd. Seeing this painting appear at the auction stunned him.
Then, furious, he stood up, shouting, “I never agreed to auction this painting!”
Lorenzo quickly grabbed his shoulder to restrain him.
His large hand was fierce as he coldly warned, “Kurt, this is your birthday party. Mess it up, and your father won’t forgive you.”
“Uncle, I didn’t agree to auction this painting! This—”
Lorenzo squinted and patted Kurt’s shoulder, urging calm. “Probably a staff mistake. Don’t worry.”
“Uncle… what do we do?” Kurt’s eyes widened as guests raised their paddles; the painting had become a target.
“Help me buy it back, please!” Kurt grabbed Lorenzo’s arm, pleading.
Lorenzo released his grip and gently patted him. “Alright, I’ll buy it back. After all, you’re my most beloved nephew.”
Kurt was about to thank him when Lorenzo gave a meaningful smile.
“But after I buy it back, it belongs to me.”
Lorenzo elegantly raised his paddle, unwilling to descend into the chaotic biddings himself.
He shouted, “One million euros!”
The crowd erupted at the sudden jump.
The auctioneer’s enthusiasm soared—no one expected a young artist’s piece to reach this price. It seemed poised to break records.
“Mr. Lorenzo bids one million! Any higher? One million, going once, going twice—”
“Three million.” A deep, cold male voice cut in, with a crisp London accent, smooth and mature like a fine red wine.
“Bravo! A gentleman bids three million!” The auctioneer’s excitement echoed throughout.
Three million euros converted to over seventeen million Hong Kong dollars. New Wave Artists joining the multi-million club were extremely rare worldwide.
Li Yaru straightened and looked toward the paddle-holder.
He sat far away in a shadowed corner, legs crossed, his imposing silhouette wrapped in gloom.
Even sitting still, he radiated a chilling, commanding aura.
Li Yaru stared at the back of his head, feeling something was off but hesitant to jump to conclusions.
Still, this man was definitely…
“Three million.” Lorenzo raised his paddle again.
The room grew increasingly raucous; guests didn’t expect such an intense battle for a small private auction.
“Five million.” The mysterious man raised his paddle.
“Six million.” Lorenzo was not to be outdone.
“Eight million.” The man’s voice remained calm and steady.
Kurt was utterly dumbfounded—he never imagined the painting would fetch eight million.
He noticed the wild flash of madness in his uncle’s eyes.
Lorenzo wasn’t just helping him; Lorenzo wanted the painting.
“One hundred million!” Lorenzo took a deep breath and raised his paddle solemnly.
“One hundred fifty million.” Zhuang Qiting, bored with petty bidding wars, casually raised his paddle.
He turned his head, locking eyes briefly with Lorenzo not far away. His dark pupils naturally revealed arrogance.
Zhuang Qiting’s eagle emblem was clearly visible on his chest.
He smirked disdainfully.
Just a fledgling bird, not worthy of competing with him.
The auctioneer hesitated, his voice trembling slightly as he announced the final hammer.
“A gentleman bids one hundred fifty million…”
Lorenzo’s mind went blank; his heart pounded wildly.
He had no idea why. From a business perspective, this was a bad investment. Yet he was unwilling to yield.
Just as he was about to raise his paddle again, wrinkled hands gripped his.
“Father?”
“You can’t compete with what he wants, Lorenzo.” The elder’s eagle-like eyes stared at him.
“Batowalin Port belongs to this Mr. Zhuang.”
The Cornelius family ran textiles and wine businesses; forty percent of their goods shipped through the Mediterranean’s Batowalin Port to Northern Europe.
Lorenzo choked on his breath and watched the auctioneer bang the gavel.
Applause erupted, celebrating the birth of a record-breaking artwork that would shake the art world.
The rest of the auction was a minor sideshow.
Li Yaru had endured long enough and finally couldn’t hold back.
Lifting her skirt slightly, she quietly slipped past and walked behind the mysterious man.
Seeing his profile clearly, she clenched her teeth, wishing she could tear Zhuang Qiting to pieces.
Knew it! Knew it! Knew it! Damn man! Damn man! Damn man!
Zhuang Qiting calmly turned, catching Li Yaru’s fierce expression with his deep, narrow eyes.
He suddenly stood, grabbed her wrist, and, while no one noticed, half-dragged, half-pulled, half-embraced her deep into the garden.
Li Yaru didn’t even get a word out before he cupped her jaw and kissed her deeply, his fiery tongue swirling wildly.
The next moment, a sharp slap landed, making her tremble all over.
She grabbed Zhuang Qiting’s tie and tore her lips and tongue away desperately.
“Zhuang Qiting, how dare you! Who gave you permission to hit me!”
Zhuang Qiting coldly gazed into Li Yaru’s reddened, soft eyes. His enticing voice was laced with icy disdain.
“Little slut.”
“…………”
Li Yaru could hardly believe what she heard.
All these days, her ears had been filled with the top-notch romantic lines of Italian men, but this man called her “little slut” as if it were nothing!
Fuming, Li Yaru felt a mouthful of blood well up in her chest but couldn’t spit it out.
Instead, she raised her hand and spanked Zhuang Qiting’s buttocks.
He had trained for years; his butt was tight, muscular, and very sexy.
She spanked him again.
If he dared touch her again, she’d get a whip and lash him.
Li Yaru stared fiercely at Zhuang Qiting’s dark, sullen face and grit her teeth.
“Slut! Slut! Slut! I’m the biggest slut here! One painting sells for a hundred million! Damn maintenance fees are only a hundred million a year!”