The Rose He Killed novel Chapter 315

Chapter 273: The Succession Finalised

Bella POV

A week later.

Lyon in October is the color of something ending gracefully.

I looked out the window of Sebastien’s car as we drove from the airport. The trees along the wide boulevard were turning shades of deep amber and rust.

The afternoon light was flatter and warmer than Silverton’s, and the city moved at a quiet, unhurried pace. Sebastien had spent decades building his life here. I could see it in the way pedestrians smiled and nodded as his car passed by-not with fear, but with genuine respect.

The car pulled up the winding driveway and stopped in front of the grand estate.

Sebastien was already standing at the front door. There was no assistant beside him, no formal staff waiting. He wore a soft, pale grey sweater, and his posture was slightly less rigid than usual.

He opened the car door for me himself. “You look tired, Bella,” he said, offering his hand.

“I had a baby a few months ago and ran a record-breaking IPO last week,” I said, stepping out onto the stone path. “I think I am allowed to look a little tired.”

A rare, genuine warmth spread across his face. “Come inside,” Sebastien said, guiding me into the warm foyer. “There is hot coffee waiting. Real coffee, not the overly complicated stuff Enzo insists on bringing from Paris.”

I laughed softly, setting my handbag on the console table. “What is wrong with Enzo’s coffee?”

“He turns making a simple cup of coffee into an entire theatrical performance,” Sebastien complained as he led me toward his study. “Everything Enzo does is a performance. The coffee is actually exceptional, but I refuse to give him the satisfaction of telling him that.”

“He would never let you hear the end of it,” I agreed.

The next day, the morning moved quickly into official business. We spent two hours in the long boardroom with the Marchetti Group’s succession team and family lawyers. Sebastien sat at the head of the dark wooden table, reviewing every document with sharp, focused eyes.

The lead lawyer set the final contract in front of me. “Ms. Black, the founding charter for the Marchetti-Hart Global Venture Fund is ready for your signature.”

I picked up the pen and looked at Sebastien across the table. “Everything is structured as we agreed? Equal capital commitments, shared oversight, and joint veto power?”

“Exactly as you specified, Bella,” Sebastien said, his voice steady. “A true partnership between our firms. No special favors-just clean, shared expansion.”

“Good,” I said, and signed my name on the dotted line.

Olivier sat right beside me in his custom dark suit. The lawyer slid the next set of papers toward him. “Mr.

Chapter 213 The Succession Finalised

Marchetti, the tripartite agreement between the Marchetti Group, Hart Worldwide, and Black Enterprises is ready for your ratification.”

Olivier looked across at me, a rare, genuine smile tugging at his mouth. “We’re officially locked into this together, sister.”

“Then sign it before I change my mind,” I teased lightly.

He uncapped his fountain pen and signed his name with crisp, decisive strokes.

He set the pen down, remaining completely composed, though I could see a subtle flicker of pride in his eyes. He turned his head and looked at me.

I gave him a short, firm nod. Olivier nodded back, a silent understanding passing between us.

Enzo leaned forward, resting his elbows on the polished table. “Now, what about me? Where do I sign?”

“We haven’t discussed your official role yet, Enzo,” Sebastien said, looking over his reading glasses.

“The art portfolio,” Enzo declared immediately, before Sebastien could even finish his sentence. “Obviously, I am taking the art portfolio.” He gestured impatiently to the lawyers. “Where is the paperwork? Let’s do the paperwork.”

It took Enzo less than four minutes to sign his documents. Once he finished, he pulled a fresh, warm croissant out of his coat pocket, completely unbothered by the formal setting. No one in the room even bothered to question it.

By noon, the legal team had gathered their briefcases and left. Sebastien led us out into the courtyard, where a stone table was set under the shade of tall oak trees.

We ate lunch while the soft autumn breeze rustled the leaves above us. Enzo spent twenty minutes telling an elaborate story about an art opening in Bordeaux that ended with a priceless sculpture floating in a marble fountain.

Olivier stood up first, adjusting his jacket. “I have a meeting in the city that I cannot reschedule,” he said, pausing near the stone table and looking directly at me. “Bella… the vision clause you added to the contract. Focusing on sustainable expansion instead of aggressive buyouts… it was the right call.”

“I believe in building things that last, Olivier,” I replied softly. “I wanted our family legacy to reflect that.”

“It does,” he agreed with a single nod. He stepped closer, wrapping his arms around me in a rare, warm hug. “Take care of yourself, sister. Don’t let Caleb work you too hard.”

“I won’t,” I smiled, leaning into the hug. “Fly safe.”

“I will,” he said softly, stepping back. “We’ll see each other soon.” He turned and walked toward his car.

Twenty minutes later, Enzo’s taxi pulled up to the gate. He stood up, already holding his phone to his ear as he recorded a voice message. “Caleb, you won’t believe it, the lunch croissant was exceptional, and I have officially secured the entire art portfolio!”

I laughed, waving as he scrambled into the back of the cab and drove away.

Soon, the estate grounds fell completely quiet. It was just Sebastien and me sitting at the stone table

23

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