Cheryle's smile lingered a second too long.
Too confident.
Too sure of itself.
It started to irritate Yvan.
She thought she had found a weakness.
She thought she could walk into a room full of wolves… without paying the price.
Yvan stood up slowly.
No sudden movement.
But the air around them seemed to drop ten degrees.
He stepped closer—invading her space.
Mélo held his breath.
He knew that look.
It was the same one Yvan had when negotiating with cartels that were ready to slit his throat.
"Listen carefully, Cheryle," Yvan murmured.
His voice was low.
Flat.
Terrifying.
There was nothing left of the polite high school boy who had just paid for sushi.
"You're smart. That's good."
"You've got eyes. That's useful."
A pause.
"But don't confuse coincidence with an invitation."
"If you think mentioning Lyam… or a car… gives you any kind of leverage over me—"
His gaze locked into hers.
Cold.
Empty.
"—then you're making the biggest mistake of your very short life."
"The world I live in doesn't recognize the word friendship when secrets leak."
Another step closer.
Barely breathing distance now.
"If you try to pressure us…"
"If even one word of what you think you know reaches Michou or Jecolia…"
A beat.
"I won't just 'break' you."
"I'll erase you."
"And no one—"
A whisper.
"—not even Lyam… will ask where you went."
Silence.
Absolute.
Dead.
For the first time—
Cheryle lost her composure.
In Yvan's eyes, she saw something she had never imagined.
Not anger.
Not fear.
Something worse.
Cold.
Endless.
Final.
She understood.
She wasn't dealing with a rich boy.
She was standing in front of a predator.
One who had already crossed the line.
Yvan stepped back.
And just like that—
The mask dropped back into place.
His face softened.
A warm smile appeared as he turned toward Michou, who was walking back with ice cream cones.
"The vanilla pecan is amazing, Yvan! Here, try it!" Michou said cheerfully.
"Thanks, sweetheart," he replied softly, his voice almost gentle.
He glanced at Cheryle.
Still frozen on the bench.
"You coming, Cheryle? It's going to melt."
8:00 PM – Lyam's HQ (Luxury Penthouse, 16th arrondissement)
The HQ was a minimalist penthouse overlooking the Eiffel Tower.
Screens displayed stock prices and luxury watch inventories in real time.
Lyam, wearing a silk robe over designer joggers, poured two glasses of expensive whiskey.
"So, the graduate finally made it!" Lyam laughed.
"Drop your bag, Yvan. We'll take care of your polo. I've got a cleaning team that works miracles… even on dried blood."
Yvan sank into a leather chair.
Exhausted.
Drained by the performance of the day.
"She knows, Lyam."
A pause.
"Cheryle."
"She knows about the RS6… and she mentioned your name."
Lyam stopped pouring.
One eyebrow raised.
"Ah… little Cheryle."
A faint smile.
"She's curious, that's true. Did me a small IT favor last month."
He handed him the glass.
"But don't worry, Yvan."
A casual tone.
Almost too casual.
"If she becomes a problem… we'll deal with it."
A pause.
"For now—drink."
"You've earned it."
Yvan took the glass.
"Three million in one afternoon."
A grin.
"You're officially my best asset."
"Forget women tonight."
"Enjoy your money."
"Tomorrow… we've got a shipment of raw diamonds coming in from Antwerp."
A look.
Sharp.
Focused.
"You ready?"
Yvan downed the whiskey in one go.
The burn steadied his nerves.
"I'm ready… but—"