Chapter 189 - 188 Back to Fister

( ZOE )

The suffocating heat of Asuir City makes people act crazy, but Jessie Hayes operates on an entirely different level of chaos.

We stand in the center of the unfinished storefront. Chalk dust coats the toes of my sensible beige flats. I watch Jessie wipe a smear of neon pink acrylic paint off the sleeve of her oversized denim jacket. She casually drops the name of a billionaire shipping heir into our conversation like she is talking about a guy who works at the local grocery store.

I clutch my clipboard against my chest. "Is this Preston guy wealthy, Jessie?"

Jessie shifts her weight from one foot to the other. She looks away, suddenly very interested in a crack running along the concrete floor. She rubs the back of her neck with her paint-stained hand.

"I mean, yeah," Jessie mumbles. She avoids making eye contact with me or Emily. "He does okay for himself. His family is well-off."

She is lying through her teeth. Or at least, she is aggressively downplaying the truth. I recognize the defensive posture immediately. Jessie wears thrift store jackets and drinks cheap coffee with us, but she negotiates with an easy, careless authority. She clearly comes from money. She probably fears we will distance ourselves from her if we realize the massive social gap between us. She wants to be an equal partner in this startup, not the token rich friend funding our project out of pity.

I decide not to press the issue. We need inventory, and she has the connection.

"Preston is obnoxious," Jessie continues, speaking a bit faster to change the subject. "He honestly deserves a good beating most days. He has zero filter and way too much free time. But his collection of imported figures is absolutely insane. He hoards limited-edition releases in pristine condition. His private stash easily surpasses the official club president’s inventory."

Emily nods slowly. She stands near the front window, her posture perfectly straight. "If he has the supply we need, the personality issues are irrelevant. You have my approval to contact him, Jessie. Invite him to join us for a meal so we can discuss a potential acquisition."

Jessie pulls her mobile phone from her pocket. She taps the screen a few times and presses the device to her ear.

The line rings loud enough for me to hear it from three feet away. Someone picks up on the fifth ring. A groggy, irritated male voice grumbles through the tiny speaker.

"Wake up, idiot," Jessie barks into the phone. She does not offer a greeting. "You have exactly thirty minutes to drag yourself out of bed and meet me downtown. If you are late, I will personally drive to your penthouse and drag you out by your hair."

She hangs up the phone without waiting for a response and shoves it back into her pocket.

Fiona stops chewing her pink bubblegum. She sits on her overturned plastic bucket, her eyes wide with curiosity. She leans toward me, lowering her voice to a loud whisper.

"Do you think they dated?" Fiona asks, pointing a finger at Jessie. "That sounded exactly like an angry ex-girlfriend calling to collect a debt."

Jessie groans loudly. She rolls her eyes toward the unfinished ceiling. "Absolutely not. Preston is practically a child in my eyes. I do not date younger men. Dealing with him is strictly a matter of enduring a massive headache to get what I want."

"Good," Emily says, checking her wristwatch. "Let us head out. We are going to Fister Restaurant."

My jaw drops open. I stare at Emily, completely abandoning my professional composure.

"Fister?" I repeat, my voice cracking slightly. "Emily, we cannot afford Fister Restaurant. A single plate of roasted vegetables there costs more than my monthly grocery budget. We are supposed to be saving our capital for the renovation."

Emily walks over to me. She places a calm, steady hand on my shoulder.

"Jessie just handed us a design blueprint worth tens of thousands of dollars, Zoe," Emily says, her dark eyes entirely serious. "And we are preparing to entertain the second-generation heir of the Pierce Shipping Empire. We cannot negotiate a massive inventory deal over plastic trays and cold fries. The environment dictates the leverage in a negotiation. We need a setting that commands respect."

( EMILY )

Zoe takes a deep breath and nods, finally accepting the logic of the situation.

We step out of the dusty storefront and into the blinding midday sun. The humidity wraps around us like a wet wool blanket. I wave down a passing taxi. Zoe, Jessie, and Fiona pile into the back seat. I take the front passenger side. As the taxi merges into the heavy Asuir City traffic, I check the side mirror. Leo drives the armored black sedan exactly two car lengths behind us, keeping a watchful distance.

Fister Restaurant sits in the center of the financial district. The exterior is sleek and modern, featuring dark mahogany doors and massive panels of tinted glass. The scent of seared steak, roasted thyme, and expensive truffle oil drifts onto the busy sidewalk as we approach the entrance.

We walk through the double doors. The intense heat of the street vanishes, replaced by a freezing blast of central air conditioning. The interior is decorated in rich, dark tones, with plush leather booths and dim, intimate lighting.

I walk directly to the front host stand.

Vincent Ziggler stands behind the polished wood. He wears a crisp, tailored suit and a perfectly knotted silk tie. He looks up from his leather-bound reservation book.

Our eyes meet.

Vincent goes completely rigid. The color drains from his cheeks in a rapid, visible wave. He clearly remembers the absolute disaster at Bordeaux 101. He remembers Leo pointing a Glock at his forehead, and he remembers Warren Sinclair threatening him over the phone. Fister Restaurant is another high-end establishment operating under his hospitality portfolio, and my sudden appearance clearly triggers a spike of pure panic in his chest.

I give him a very small, pointed look. I incline my head slightly, communicating a silent but absolute directive.

Vincent swallows hard. He is a survivor. He understands the assignment perfectly. He steps out from behind the mahogany stand, bowing at a respectful, appropriate angle. He does not mention the Wolfe Empire. He does not use my married title in front of my business partners.

"Miss Vance," Vincent says smoothly, his voice remarkably steady despite his pale complexion. "It is an absolute pleasure to welcome you. I will arrange a private suite for your party immediately."

"Thank you, Mr. Ziggler," I reply politely.

Zoe and Fiona exchange a confused look, clearly surprised by the red-carpet treatment, but they do not ask questions. Vincent leads us through the crowded main dining hall. The clattering of silver forks against porcelain plates fills the room. We arrive at a secluded suite in the back of the restaurant. Heavy velvet drapes line the walls, absorbing the ambient noise and creating a perfectly quiet environment.

"Jessie," I say, taking a seat at the circular mahogany table. "Wait at the front entrance for your friend. We do not want him wandering around and causing a scene in the main dining room."

Jessie sighs, dropping her canvas tote bag onto a leather chair. "Fine. I will go wrangle the idiot."

( JESSIE )

I stand on the scorching concrete pavement outside the glass doors of Fister Restaurant. The sun beats down on my shoulders, making the neon paint on my denim jacket smell faintly of warm chemicals.

I check the time on my mobile phone screen. Twenty-nine minutes have passed since I made the call.

Preston is going to push it to the absolute final second. We grew up in the exact same social circles. We attended the same insufferable private schools and endured the same boring high-society galas. I know exactly how he operates. He loves an audience, and he despises being punctual. He treats every single social interaction like a theatrical performance designed to stroke his massive, fragile ego.

A deafening roar echoes down the concrete canyon of the financial district.

The sound of a highly tuned, twelve-cylinder engine bounces off the glass skyscrapers, drowning out the noise of the regular city traffic. Pedestrians stop on the sidewalk, turning their heads to locate the source of the mechanical screaming.

A cherry-red convertible sports car weaves aggressively through the slow-moving sedans. It crosses two lanes of traffic without using a turn signal. The driver slams on the brakes, the tires letting out a sharp, violent screech against the asphalt. The car jerks into the loading zone right in front of the restaurant valet stand, missing the curb by a fraction of an inch.

The valet attendant jumps backward, dropping his clipboard in pure shock.

Preston Pierce does not even bother opening the car door. He places one hand on the sleek red windshield frame and vaults smoothly over the side panel. He lands on the sidewalk in pristine, bright white designer sneakers.

He stands up, rolling his shoulders to adjust his outfit. He wears a loud, floral-print silk shirt unbuttoned halfway down his chest, exposing a thick gold chain resting against his collarbone. His dark hair is styled with an excessive amount of expensive product, swept back perfectly to defy the wind. He slides a pair of oversized, dark aviator sunglasses down his nose and flashes a ridiculously arrogant, blindingly white grin.

He tosses the car keys blindly over his shoulder. The terrified valet attendant scrambles to catch them before they hit the pavement.

"You look terrible, Jessie," Preston announces loudly. He steps toward me, looking me up and down with exaggerated disgust. "Did you roll out of a dumpster this morning, or is that paint-splattered jacket considered high fashion in the art department?"

I cross my arms tightly over my chest. The urge to punch him directly in his perfectly straight teeth is overwhelming.

"You are twenty seconds away from me leaving you on this sidewalk, Preston," I reply, keeping my voice cold and flat. "Button your ridiculous shirt and get inside. My business partners are waiting."

Preston laughs, a bright, careless sound. He ignores my instruction completely, leaving the silk shirt open as he strolls past me toward the heavy glass doors. He moves with the easy, infuriating confidence of a man who has never been told no in his entire life.

I take a deep breath, praying to whatever deity is listening that Emily Vance does not murder him before the appetizers arrive. I turn around and follow the rich idiot into the restaurant.