Free Web NovelChapter 20: [20] "Making an Entrance"
The custom-made tuxedo was ten thousand Euros, but it was like wearing a straitjacket. Each shallow breath he drew scrubbed against the firm athletic tape around his ribs.
He got out of the black car. The night air in Paris was cold, but the heat of a hundred camera flashes was so strong that it struck him on the face at once.
Juliette just followed him out.
The paparazzi went off their rockers. Her emerald gown had the perfect fit for her blue eyes, it was backless, which fit her athletic figure well. Her dark hair was twisted into a severe, elegant twist. She was in all manner of a sense, a bombshell.
Luc extended his arm to her. She took it, her hand solidly fixed around his.
[System Notification]
[Objective: Stay calm throughout the Gala!]
[Reward: +10 Composure stat (permanent) — psychological resistance under pressure.]
[Penalty: None. Just forfeit the Reward. And your dignity. And most likely the war.] freёweɓnovel.com
The words faded away into the cold night air as Luc read them over his shoulder.
It was easy enough, he decided. Don’t let them see you waiver.
---
The red carpet outside of the Qatari Gala was a riotous war zone with screaming journalists. Chloé and Olivier Fontaine were half way down. The suit Fontaine wore was a showy piece of shiny, silver metal. Chloé was wearing a very big diamond necklace, which resembled something like a collar more than anything.
It was an instant turnaround as soon as Luc and Juliette walked on the floor.
The story was completely lost. The cameras left the reigning king behind to record the American giant-slayer as well as the beautiful and mysterious woman in his arm. It was a new and perilous tale and the press gobbled it up like the wolves when a quick animal comes along.
Luc slowed his pace down. Measured. He didn’t turn his gaze to Fontaine. He didn’t turn his gaze to Chloé. No performance for the cameras, instead he gave them something else, a presence. There is a difference. One is theatre. The other is a caution.
With each step that he took his ribs reminded him of their condition.
He paid them no heed.
---
The atmosphere in the large Ballroom, with its gold-trimmed walls and ceiling was saturated with jasmine and old money. A string quartet was playing something low and European in the corner. Waiters walked around the tables, holding tower after tower of champagne.
Near the VIP tables, there was Valérie Laurent holding court. She was standing with three men, all in immacate traditional Qatari thobes. Across the room she caught Luc’s eye, and gave a slight nodding, a contented nod. The kind of nod a chess player gives when a piece lands exactly where she placed it.
Luc went across the room, leaving Juliette at the bar.
Valérie introduced her acquaintances nicely. They were the main builders of the league’s business empire. They paid Fontaine’s huge wages. They chose which clubs would be invested in and others quietly slipped down to relegation.
Luc never thought to speak about football. He knew right away that these guys weren’t concerned with tactics or goals or highlight reels. They were concerned with money. About markets. Details regarding numbers on spreadsheets.
So Luc spoke about American broadcast rights. The exploding youth soccer demographics in the United States. What a French league rivalry, a true, visceral, personal rivalry, would mean to a broadcast deal with a big American sports network. He spoke of himself, not as a footballer, but as a product. A bridge. An undeveloped commercial artery.
His eyes were turned to them as they looked on with curiosity.
He was fluent in their language. He was able to show, subtly and unpretentiously, that he could not only score goals and cause problems or just a fast player as well. He was an educated, sellable commodity who knew the workings of the industry he was challenging.
One of the executives put his hand on his shoulder. "We’d like to discuss this further, maybe after the season."
"Of course," replied Luc. "Where I am is where I still intend to be."
He could see Fontaine, standing off from him, silver suit catching the light of the chandelier, jaw set tight, across the huge ballroom.
---
Chloé appeared by Juliette’s side as Juliette was ordering herself a sparkling water at the bar.
Her knuckles were white, because she was gripping a champagne flute. Her face looked like that of a lady who had practised something multiple times on the way here and was now afraid to perform it.
"You think you can take him away from me?" Chloé asked. There was a hint of tremors in her voice that she couldn’t muster.
Juliette didn’t turn her head. She had just taken her bubbly water from the bartender and she studied the bubbles in the glass for a long moment before drinking it slowly and deliberately.
"No, I don’t just go about taking things," Juliette replied without any heat or drama. "I repair what seems broken, even if it really isn’t, you broke him, I upgraded Him, now he is too much for you."
At last she lifted her head. Her green eyes were ice cold.
"Go stand by the losing ticket."
Chloé’s expression went as white as a sheet of paper. She opened her mouth. Nothing came out. Juliette just put down her glass and left, leaving behind the blonde alone with the remains of the choice she had selected.
