Chapter 96 - 95 The Apology
**[EMILY]**
Apologies from billionaires are about as genuine as costume jewelry.
I stand inside the panoramic glass elevator beside Alistair. We ascend rapidly toward the second floor of Bordeaux 101. The neon city lights of Asuir reflect brightly against the glass panels. I still wear my crisp black trousers and my tailored navy blue blazer from the university. Alistair stands perfectly straight next to me in his charcoal gray suit. He radiates a cold, impenetrable authority. He looks like a man preparing for a hostile corporate takeover rather than a casual dinner.
The elevator slows to a halt. A soft electronic chime rings through the small cabin.
The silver doors slide open.
Warren Sinclair waits for us directly in the center of the plush, dimly lit corridor. He wears the exact same bespoke navy blue suit from yesterday. His diamond tie clip catches the warm, golden light of the overhead crystal chandeliers. His light brown hair falls in that deliberate, messy wave across his forehead. He holds his hands casually in his pockets.
He looks at me. That familiar, highly amused smile instantly touches his lips.
Alistair steps out of the elevator first. I follow closely behind him. My polished leather boots sink slightly into the thick, expensive carpet.
Alistair stops walking. He positions himself slightly in front of me, establishing a clear, physical barrier between his billionaire friend and his wife. The protective gesture is entirely unnecessary, but I do not correct him.
"Warren," Alistair says. His voice is a low, demanding rasp. It carries absolutely zero warmth. "You remember Emily."
"I do indeed," Warren replies. His deep voice is incredibly smooth. He looks past Alistair’s broad shoulder and meets my dark eyes directly.
"You have a specific purpose for being here tonight," Alistair reminds him sharply.
Warren pulls his hands out of his pockets. The amused, arrogant smile fades from his handsome face. He straightens his posture, adopting a surprisingly serious, respectful demeanor. He takes one slow step forward. He keeps a very safe, measured distance from us.
"I do," Warren says. He looks directly at my face. He does not look at my bandaged hands or my simple outfit. "Emily, I owe you a sincere apology. Taking that photograph yesterday was a massive lapse in my professional judgment. I invaded your privacy during a highly sensitive corporate negotiation. It was entirely disrespectful, and I promise you it will absolutely never happen again."
I cross my arms over my chest. I study his striking green eyes.
I search his expression for any trace of mockery. I look for the hidden smirk or the condescending tone. I find absolutely nothing. His apology is direct, straightforward, and completely genuine. He is acknowledging my boundaries.
"I accept your apology, Mr. Sinclair," I reply calmly. I keep my tone strictly professional. "I prefer to keep my corporate strategies confidential. I am glad we reached an understanding."
Warren nods once. A small, respectful smile returns to his face. "We have a perfect understanding. Now, please allow me to escort you both to the private dining room. The chef prepared a spectacular tasting menu for us."
He turns around and walks down the long, opulent corridor.
Alistair looks down at me. A deep, highly satisfied gleam shines in his dark eyes. He forced a powerful casino magnate to grovel at my feet. The display of absolute power clearly feeds his massive ego.
"Shall we?" Alistair asks quietly.
"We shall," I agree.
I walk beside Alistair down the quiet hallway. The smell of roasted garlic, rich red wine, and expensive sandalwood fills the air. I secured my medical university admission this morning. I conquered Victor Sterling yesterday. A billionaire just apologized to me. I am building incredible momentum, and absolutely nothing is going to break my stride tonight.
**[CHLOE]**
The first-floor dining room of Bordeaux 101 is completely suffocating.
I stand near a massive marble pillar just outside the main restroom corridor. I hold a flute of sparkling water. I desperately need a break from Julian’s pathetic networking attempts. He spent the last hour begging mid-level pharmaceutical investors for basic startup capital. Professor Chase keeps introducing us to boring, gray-haired executives who smell like stale cigar smoke. I am wearing a stunning metallic silver dress. I deserve to be sitting at the head of a power table.
I take a sip of my water. I glare at the spiral mahogany staircase leading up to the VIP levels.
A soft ping rings out from the private elevator banks directly across the lobby.
I turn my head. The silver doors of the VIP elevator slide open.
My grip on the delicate crystal glass tightens instantly. My heart pounds with sudden, violent anger.
Emily steps out of the elevator.
She wears a boring navy blue blazer and completely plain black trousers. She has absolutely zero fashion sense. Her hands are still wrapped in those ridiculous white medical bandages. Yet, she walks with her chin held high. She looks completely confident. She looks like she actually owns the building.
I grit my teeth. How in the world did my pathetic, dropout stepsister gain access to the restricted second floor of the most exclusive restaurant in Asuir?
Then, I notice the man walking right beside her.
He is absolutely massive. He towers over Emily. He wears a perfectly tailored charcoal gray suit that stretches tightly across his incredibly broad shoulders. His dark hair is neatly styled. His facial features are impossibly sharp and completely ruthless. He looks like a highly dangerous, lethal weapon wrapped in expensive silk and wool. He walks with a rigid, highly disciplined posture. He scans the corridor with cold, calculating eyes.
A familiar figure approaches them from the shadows of the hallway.
Warren Sinclair.
The billionaire owner of Bordeaux 101 stops in front of Emily and the terrifying man. Warren wears a bespoke navy suit. He smiles warmly. He speaks to them for a brief moment. He treats them with complete respect. Then, Warren turns around and leads them down the hallway toward the highly restricted private dining rooms.
I press my back against the cold marble pillar. My mind races. I try to make sense of the impossible scene I just witnessed.
Emily married a complete nobody. My father confirmed it weeks ago. She married a poor, desperate man with no social standing and zero family wealth. She lives in total obscurity.
So who is the terrifying giant in the charcoal suit?
A sudden memory surfaces in my brain. I recall a hushed conversation I overheard at a country club mixer last month. Wealthy socialites were gossiping about Warren Sinclair’s notorious security protocols. They whispered that Warren employs a private army of highly trained, ex-military enforcers. They said his bodyguards wear custom tailored suits and look like ruthless corporate executives to blend in with the VIP clientele.
The puzzle pieces snap together perfectly in my mind.
The massive man in the charcoal suit is not a wealthy executive. He is Warren Sinclair’s hired muscle. He is a glorified security guard.
A loud, cruel laugh escapes my throat.
Emily did not marry a CEO. She married a basic bodyguard. She is only allowed on the second floor tonight because her pathetic husband is working a security shift for the restaurant owner. She is probably just tagging along to get a free meal in the employee break room.
The burning jealousy in my chest instantly transforms into pure, unadulterated triumph.
I watch the heavy velvet curtains fall shut behind the three of them. I smooth the metallic fabric of my silver dress. I run my manicured fingers through my blonde hair.
Warren Sinclair rejected my subtle advances earlier this evening. He completely dismissed me. But men are highly visual creatures, and persistence always wins in the end. I am going to find a way back up to that second floor. I am going to dazzle him. I am going to make him realize I belong by his side.
I make a silent, ironclad vow to myself right there in the lobby.
Once I secure Warren Sinclair’s absolute devotion, I will become the lady of Bordeaux 101. I will control this entire building. And the very first executive order I issue will be highly personal.
I will force Warren to fire Emily’s massive, terrifying husband.
I will strip away their only source of income. I will throw my arrogant stepsister and her hired muscle right back onto the dirty city streets where they belong.