Chapter 492

Chapter 492:

Everyone knew Valmont had cash flow issues, but I assumed it was manageable. This was a well-established house. They must have assets, property, things they could leverage.

“We’re not going under tomorrow, if that’s what you’re worried about,” Fabrizio said with a shrug.

Louis-François and Peter Carl had disappeared inside the café. I caught sight of Peter craning over the ice cream counter like a kid on a sugar hunt. Fabrizio led me to a table on the pavement and ordered two glaces café liégeois.

He picked up the thread like he hadn’t missed a beat. “If you were part-owner of Valmont, maybe Mr. Laurent would be a bit more… motivated to see us succeed p>

Third time in two days he’d brought up the joint venture idea. I was starting to think this cash flow issue was more urgent than he let on.

I liked Fabrizio. He had an eye for design, a solid name in the business, and his work was genuinely elegant.

And as a person, he was charming, polite to a fault.

But none of that meant I’d throw millions of euros at him just because he asked nicely.

“Could you send me the company’s financial reports for the past five years? I’ll need to go through them first, just to get a sense of things,” I said.

“Sure.” Fabrizio’s eyes lit up. “I’ll email them to you tonight. They’re confidential, as I’m sure you understand p>

“Of course. Though, do you mind if I ask a financial analyst to look them over with me? I’m hopeless with numbers.” Even back in school, I’d rather run a marathon than solve for eigenvalues.

Fabrizio hesitated.

Finally, Fabrizio said, “That’s fine. Just keep them private, that’s all p>

He perked up noticeably after lunch, and I liked to think I had something to do with that.

I planned to show Ashton the reports tonight. Who says a fiancé can’t double as your financial analyst? If he said everything checked out, I’d invest in Valmont & Cie. I had enough money—well, technically Ashton’s money, but he’d said it was mine to spend however I wanted. Still, I’d run it by him first.

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The afternoon drifted by pleasantly. Paris lived up to its reputation as the gourmet capital of Europe. Fabrizio picked a restaurant with zero Michelin stars, and I still ended up going back for seconds.

Okay, fine. Thirds. Plus two slices of cake. The mille-feuille alone could make a grown woman weep.

Which explained why I asked Fabrizio to drop me off a few blocks from the hotel. That, of course, meant offering an awkward explanation for why I’d moved out of the lovely, work-adjacent house he’d set up for me and into a hotel.

I couldn’t exactly say, “Ashton made me.” Though that’s what happened. Thankfully, Fabrizio was too polite to pry. He just smiled in that painfully gracious way and let me off the hook.

I thanked him for the lift, said goodnight, and walked the rest of the way to help with digestion.

“Keep eating like this and you’ll need a bigger wedding dress,” I told myself.

Then it hit me—I had no idea what my wedding dress even looked like. Ashton and I had set the date, and that was the sum total of my involvement. Then I’d flown to Paris.

So, who was sorting out the dress? Shouldn’t there be fittings? Measurements?