Lahat ng Kabanata ng The Tycoon’s Temptress - Red Flower’s Chase: Kabanata 121 - Kabanata 130

Camilla Bianchi’s POV The sun beat down on Paolo’s mansion—my mansion now, thank you very much. It’s stone laid terrace gleaming like a mirage in Baghdad’s relentless heat. I lounged by the infinity pool in a purple string bikini, my long blonde curls spilling over the chaise, my thick lashes framing sultry, smoky eyes. The makeup was heavy, sure, but I played it innocent, all wide-eyed and pouty, a wolf in a lamb’s skin. My two friends, Zara and Lina, giggled nearby, sipping mimosas, their voices a high-pitched buzz. “Oh, Camilla, this place is divine!” Zara squealed, tossing her hair. The butler, stiff in his black suit, offered a tray of chilled drinks. “More refreshments, madam?” he droned. “Keep them coming, Hassan,” I said, waving him off, my red manicured nails flashing. My phone buzzed on the glass table, the screen flashing. I picked it up and a neutral female voice said; Al-Kasra Detention Center, Baghdad. Would you like to accept a collect call from a

Valentina’s POV We all sat together at a long breakfast table just after sunrise. The air was warm but carried a slight chill—still scented with the after-rain freshness from yesterday. But today? Today was perfect. The sun glittered on Lake Como like scattered diamonds, casting soft ripples in the breeze. Italy was my second home where I had some of my roots. I watched the yachts rocking gently in their docks. Three great crested grebes glided across the surface, their slender necks dipping gracefully as they paddled. The lush green trees framed the shore and the sound of water lapping calmed me down mentally. The table was a spread of Italian comfort: warm cornetti filled with apricot marmellata, focaccia drizzled with rosemary olive oil, bowls of fresh stracciatella cheese next to sun-dried tomatoes, and golden frittata di verdure packed with zucchini and herbs. Beside it sat slices of toasted pane casereccio slathered in honey and fig jam. Steaming cups of

Valentina’s POV “Valentina,” Raffaele said, glancing my way with that sharp, assessing look. “What are you thinking? I know you’re up to something.” His eyes locked on mine, unblinking. I tossed my hair and batted my lashes innocently. “What? I didn’t say anything.” He didn’t let up. “With that mischievous grin, I’m sure you’re already playing chess in your head.” His tone was dry but amused. “Oh, you mean that?” I laughed melodically, squeezing his arm and savoring his warmth. He narrowed his eyes. “Why do you always look like you want to swallow me whole? I don’t know if I should scoop you up and take you to our bedroom… or run the other way.” “It’s just…” I side-eyed him, letting the words linger, “I’ve got something special on my mind. But I’d like it to be a surprise.” Raffaele’s jaw tightened ever so slightly. “You know I don’t like surprises.” “Babe,” I said with a sly smile, “I promise I won’t make you fence with a sword ever again—unless, of course, it’s to

Raffaele’s POV The box was ornate, with intricate engravings—dripping with the kind of theatrical vanity that reeked of Camilla’s taste. But was it her? Or one of Tariq’s twisted games? Or Domenico’s? Could he really be so cold hearted? The letter Valentina had received still burned in my mind—its handwriting delicate, unmistakably feminine. Valentina’s eyelashes fluttered once against my cheek. And then she went still. My chest constricted so hard it was almost painful. My fear ignited into rage. “Vaffanculo! Go fuck yourself, Camilla!” I roared, the words tearing out of me before I could think straight. “Bint al kalb!” I spat the last phrase like venom. Daughter of a bitch. Even dogs had more honor than her. Whether it was Camilla’s vanity or Tariq’s cruelty, I’d make them both bleed for this. Dr. Abdul Rahman caught my arm. “Calm down, Raffaele we must get her to the hospital. The ambulance will be here any moment.” Calm down? My nostrils flared, my chest burning.

Raffaele’s POV The VIP ward didn’t feel like a hospital. The walls were lined with muted cream paneling and soft recessed lights instead of harsh fluorescents. Heavy curtains in deep green framed tall windows that overlooked the city skyline, the glass tinted so the neon glare outside couldn’t pierce what it concealed inside. Even the air smelled faintly of lavender from the discreet diffuser in the corner, masking the sterile tang of antiseptic. I sat in the leather chair beside Valentina’s bed, its cushions swallowing me whole. The beeping of the monitor seemed to grow louder with every breath she took, a constant reminder of the thin thread holding her here. My fingers curled into fists against my knees. Hembapu stood near the door, arms crossed, his broad frame blocking half the hall from view. Tatekulu leaned against the far wall, quietly watching every nurse that passed as if daring them to interrupt. Security posted at both ends of the corridor made sure no on