Tycoon's Temptress Red Flowers Chase

Valentina's PO

The air in the luxury villa was glacial.

Not from the marble floors or the endless windows overlooking Baghdad's skyline-but from the man seated across the mahogany desk.

His eyes bore into mine, they were charged with electricity. He would be dazzling, dashing even if it wasn't for the fact he had bought me.

Raffaele Ricchezza didn't smile. He didn't blink either. His suit, all black Armani, wrapped his lean form like armor. His presence sucked the warmth from the room.

I met his stare without flinching.

"You understand what I'm offering," he said finally with his voice low and precise.

"I do," I replied. "You're asking me to marry you."

"A legal union," he clarified. "No romance. No expectations beyond public appearances, occasional press photos, and eventual heirs."

I arched a brow. "You want children?"

He leaned back. "My grandfather's will is explicit. No heirs, no inheritance. And I don't intend to lose ten billion dollars because of outdated sentiment."

I tilted my head, feigning contemplation. "And you chose me... why?"

A pause-barely noticeable, but it was there. "You're discreet. Educated. Attractive. Not entangled in scandals. You'd serve the role well."

"And you don't believe in love," I added coolly.

His mouth twitched. "Love is manipulation dressed as devotion. I've seen what it does to men-what it did to my father."

The way my stepmother had drained my foolish father dry left a bitter taste in my mouth. All of it in the name of love.

And me? I was nothing more than a leftover-collateral from a dying relationship that ended cruelly with my mother's death, then slowly decayed into something unrecognizable.

My father always claimed he loved me but everytime Camilla made sure to insert herself between us with her endless ridiculous demands.

My father fell for it every damn time.

Do you know who I am?" His accent was Italian, like mine, but harder, shaped by a different street.

"A monster who buys women?"

He didn't react to the insult. "I am Raffaele Ricchezza. Your stepmother owes me a considerable sum of money."

I frowned, confusion momentarily eclipsing fear. "What does that have to do with me?"

"Everything." He sipped his wine, studying me over the rim of his glass. "Camilla gambles. Badly. She's been borrowing from my casinos for years."

"And this-" I gestured to myself, to the room, "-is her repayment?"

"In a manner of speaking." He set down his glass. "You were not what she offered initially."

My stomach churned. "What did she offer?"

"Information about your father's research. The location of certain artifacts." His eyes never left mine. "When she couldn't deliver, she offered you instead."

This man was so shameless he didn't even try to cover up his own family's heinous crimes.

"Your work is not unknown in certain circles. The quest for Gilgamesh's tomb. The orichalcum." He said

My academic pride flared despite everything. "It's not a quest. It's legitimate archaeological research."

"Research that got your father killed." His words were brutal, precise.

Your stepmother sold you to eliminate competition for your father's will and your mothers wealth. If you're presumed dead, everything goes to her as the surviving spouse."

"And if I marry you?"

"The legal entanglements become... interesting." A cold smile curved his lips.

"Especially when she discovers you're very much alive and now connected to someone with resources to challenge her."

I shook my head in disbelief. "You want to marry me for-what? Access to my father's research?"

Did he want to marry me for information as well?

"I want to pursue your father's discoveries together. The Gilgamesh artifacts, the orichalcum-I've been tracking them for years." His voice lowered, intensity burning in his eyes.

"Your father was close to something extraordinary. I have the resources to finish what he started."

"And in return?"

"Marriage provides you protection, legitimacy, and the means to destroy Camilla."

I searched his face for lies, finding only cold determination. "Why would you help me?"

"I bought your contract to keep you alive and get my own benefits." His voice dropped, suddenly intense.

"There were others bidding tonight with far less pleasant intentions, Miss Valentina Bianchi. Men who would have used you and discarded you after when they got what they wanted."

What he didn't know: Camilla Bianchi, my stepmother, had once waved an Iraqi police report in my face-stamped and official.

It stated that my father, Paolo Bianchi, a UNESCO archaeologist working for the Baghdad Museum, had been on the verge of exposing an ancient metal-orichalcum. A substance capable of revolutionizing clean energy.

His research, if made public, would have crippled the fossil fuel empires.

Instead, he died in 2003 during the chaos of the U.S. invasion, when looters ransacked the museum and burned his life's work to ashes.

His company? Absorbed by Ricchezza Oil. His name? Buried in bankruptcy and scandal.

The whispers said mercenaries silenced him before he could speak.

The report pointed to a hired hitman linked to Ricchezza Oil-a man named Tariq Al-Mansour-and detailed the bribes paid to Baghdad police to bury the case.

Ricchezza has used their influence and hush money to wrap up loose ends.

Now I sat across from a Ricchezza.

Camilla hadn't just disowned me.

She'd sold me for $500,000 at a black-market auction in a private club as soon as she found out about the money, drugged me with spiked champagne at a brunch I never wanted to attend-just to claim my late mother's inheritance that I was supposed to get access to once I turned 21.

A small fortune, enough to maintain her lavish lifestyle and keep the creditors at bay.

I should've known better.

And fate, in its cruel irony, had handed me directly to the man whose empire had helped destroy my father's legacy.

I had spent years preparing for this. Finance degree. Law training. Connections. Patience.

Now, I had my chance. Marry the devil, then burn down his kingdom and get justice for my father.

"I accept," I said, extending my hand.

He glanced at it, then shook it once-firm, cold.

"I'll have my lawyer draw up the agreement. Prenup. Clause of conduct. You'll move into the villa soon."

I stood up. "Anything else I should know?"

"Yes." He rose too, towering above me. "Betray me, and I'll ruin you."

I smiled sweetly. "Likewise, Mr. Ricchezza."

As I turned to leave the villa, my phone buzzed.

I didn't check it.

Because at that moment, I wasn't the girl who had been drugged, sold, and humiliated and dragged to his office like a spectacle wearing this skimpy dress.

Raffaele was a man born into blood money and it only deepened my hatred for him and his family. A man who bought women like livestock could never be trusted.

I didn't care if he saved my life.

I was the woman who would tear down the Ricchezza empire from the inside out-brick by brick until it fell by my hand.

Then I read it and my heart leaped at my throat. It was a message from Maria.

He's back. I saw Tullio near the bookstore. He followed me.

My pulse quickened.

Tullio Cavaliere. The monster from Maria Medri's past.

As I stepped into the elevator with my heart pounding. I couldn't afford distractions.

Not from Tullio.

Not from the red flower hidden in my father's journal.

Not from the cold billionaire whose eyes had lingered a second too long.

But deep inside, I felt it-

This wasn't just revenge.

It was war.

I would use this man and his resources to find out what my father had died for and get my revenge before anyone could lay hands upon what we had researched together for years.

I would take down Camilla with me if I had to.

And then I would reclaim my freedom, no matter the cost. I just had to survive long enough to do it.

Valentina's POV

I stood before the ornate mirror in the guest suite, studying my reflection with critical eyes.

The woman staring back wore a silk emerald green A-line dress with a cowl neckline and short puffy sleeves, it was feminine, elegant and disarming.

Around my neck hung a delicate emerald necklace with matching earrings-Raffaele's "gift."

"You're decent enough," came his voice from the doorway.

I turned slowly, finding him leaning against the frame, immaculate in charcoal gray, his expression unreadable.

Those dark eyes made my stomach surge. I couldn't look away.

"You exceed expectations," I replied coolly, adjusting the necklace. "Another chain to bind me?"

Something flashed in his eyes-amusement? Irritation? "Symbolic, perhaps. But necessary for appearances."

"Like everything else about this arrangement."

He checked his watch. "The lawyers are waiting. Shall we?"

The conference room felt sterile-glass and polished wood.

Two family attorneys sat opposite each other, documents spread like a battlefield.

Raffaele's lawyer, a hawk-faced woman named Alessandra Moretti, pushed the first stack toward me.

"The prenuptial agreement," she said, voice clipped. "Mr. Ricchezza has been... generous."

I took my time reading, ignoring their impatience. Page after page-restricting my access to funds, dictating my behavior, outlining my "duties" as Mrs. Valentina Ricchezza.

"I need access to the library," I said finally.

Raffaele raised an eyebrow. "Explain."

"I need unrestricted access to your research facilities. My work doesn't stop because of our arrangement."

"Your archaeology hobby?" Alessandra Moretti scoffed.

I met Raffaele's gaze. "My profession. The same one that made me valuable enough for you to... acquire."

A tense silence stretched. Then, unexpectedly, he nodded. "Make the changes, Alessandra."

Her surprise mirrored mine. "Mr. Ricchezza-"

"Do it." His tone left no room for argument.

An hour later, I signed my name beside his. It felt weird.

As Alessandra Moretti gathered the papers, Raffaele leaned close, his breath warm against my ear. "Your first test begins tonight. The engagement announcement. Don't disappoint me."

I smiled tightly. "I never do."

The ballroom of the Grand Babylon Hotel glittered with Baghdad's elite-politicians, oil magnates, socialites dripping in jewels. Cameras flashed as we entered, his hand firm against the small of my back.

"Smile," he murmured. "You look like you're walking to your execution."

"Aren't I?" I whispered through gritted teeth.

His laugh sounded genuine enough to fool everyone but me. "Perhaps. But what a magnificent death it will be."

We moved through the crowd seamlessly. I played my part-the charming, accomplished fiancée, laughing at the right moments, touching his arm with practiced affection.

"Valentina," a man greeted warmly. "Finally, I meet the woman who's tamed my grandson."

His handshake was firm, his smile genuine. This man couldn't be more different from Raffaele.

"Mr. Ricchezza, it's a pleasure-"

"Call me Domenico. Come, sit. You're even more beautiful than in the photos."

I blushed automatically, letting the role wrap around me like silk. "I've heard about your work. Archaeology, wasn't it?"

"Yes. Ancient civilizations, mostly Mesopotamian."

"A woman with brains and purpose. Finally!" he said, chuckling. "I worried Raffaele would settle for some empty-headed heiress."

"I suppose I'm a different kind of acquisition," I said with a teasing smile.

He laughed harder. "And honest. I like that."

He poured tea into porcelain cups. "Now, tell me-do you want children?"

He nodded seriously. "The Ricchezza name needs a future."

"I've always imagined having three," I said smoothly. "A small tribe."

Domenico beamed. "Three! You hear that, Raffaele?"

"I heard." His tone was unreadable.

"Good girl," Domenico said, patting my hand.

"You signed the prenup without a fuss. A woman who's not after money is rare in our world. Don't worry, my dear. Raffaele and I will spoil you and your future children properly."

I smiled, heart pounding. I didn't want children. Not with Raffaele. But I nodded like any dutiful bride would.

"Excuse us, grandfather," Raffaele said quietly. "It's time for the toast."

He led me to the center of the room, champagne flutes in hand. The crowd hushed as he raised his glass.

"To my future wife, Valentina," he announced, voice carrying effortlessly. "Who brings brilliance and beauty into my life when I least expected it."

All eyes turned to me. My moment.

I lifted my glass, meeting his gaze. "To Raffaele," I said in a steady voice, "who reminded me that sometimes the most valuable treasures are those destined by fate."

I let my smile turn intimate. "Though as an archaeologist, I can't help but dig beneath the surface."

A ripple of appreciative laughter. His eyes darkened slightly-challenge accepted.

He leaned in, his soft lips brushing mine for the cameras. A perfect performance. And my lips tingled with anticipation, my mind spiraled out of control as my body betrayed me.

"Convincing," he whispered against my mouth.

I only nodded, unable to speak.

The car passed through towering gates and wound its way up a tree-lined drive toward a sprawling Mediterranean-style villa.

My phone buzzed nonstop, notifications flooding in. #XRicchezzaRomance was everywhere-headlines spun a fairytale of my engagement to Raffaele.

I scrolled through the texts, disgust creeping in. The media twisted every glance and touch into something it wasn't.

"Welcome home, Mrs. Valentina Ricchezza," Raffaele said as the car stopped.

The housekeeper, Elena, showed me to "my" wing-a suite of rooms larger than my entire apartment. She was efficient, polite, but I caught the suspicion in her eyes.

The only familiar items were my books and research notes, carefully arranged on shelves. And my father's journal. Stamped with the red flower.

"I'm here, father," I whispered. "I'll find out the truth and get our revenge."

I ventured out to explore. The house was quiet-perfect for what I needed.

The eastern wing housed Raffaele's offices and library, now accessible thanks to my negotiated terms. I tried the door-unlocked.

The library took my breath away. Two stories of books, ancient maps framed on walls, climate-controlled cases containing artifacts.

I moved through the space carefully, examining titles. Art history. Archaeology. Mesopotamian mythology. Unexpected for an oil tycoon.

A glass case against the far wall drew me closer. Inside lay a clay tablet, cuneiform markings clearly visible-Sumerian, from the Uruk period.

"It's authentic."

I whirled around. Raffaele stood in the doorway, watching me with those piercing eyes.

"Third dynasty," I said, recovering quickly. "A fragment from the Epic of Gilgamesh."

He approached, standing beside me to view the tablet. "The flood story. One of the first acquisitions in my collection."

"Your collection?" I couldn't hide my surprise. "You're actually interested in archaeology for real?"

"I'm interested in many things, Valentina." His voice dropped slightly. "Including what my new wife is doing"

He stepped too close, his cologne, his breath on my skin, making my pulse quicken.

"Why so breathless, Valentina? Are you suddenly out of words?" he said, smirking as he released me.

"Getting acquainted with my surroundings," I said, trying to steady my breath. "As any good archaeologist would."

He gestured around the room. "Feel free to use my resources."

He turned to leave, then paused. "There's a charity gala tomorrow night. Your first official appearance as my wife. The maid will help you prepare."

"I don't need help dressing."

"Nevertheless," he said, studying me for a moment longer. "Goodnight, Valentina."

After he left, I returned to the tablet and my mind racing.

I scanned the shelves until one report caught my eye-Ricchezza Oil's logo embossed on the cover. His collection wasn't just a rich man's hobby. The Ricchezza family's connection to my father's death felt more complex than I'd imagined.

I opened it, heart thudding. A bookmarked page listed "orichalcum knowledge-2003." Me and my father's obsession.

A note in Raffaele's sharp script: "Bianchi's data incomplete. Pursue source."

Footsteps echoed outside. I shoved the report back, pulse hammering, and slipped into the hall just as a shadow crossed the doorway.

The next morning, I escaped to the gardens, needing air. The grounds were immaculate-Mediterranean cypress trees, stone fountains, hidden alcoves.

A rustle startled me. An older woman stood near a rose trellis, struggling with a shawl caught on thorns.

"Let me help," I said, stepping forward.

She looked up, eyes widening. "Valentina Bianchi?"

"Do I know you?" I asked, suddenly realizing it was Monica Buccella.

"I was your mother Graziella's friend. I'm here to see Domenico's wife Giuliana."

Her gaze dropped to my engagement ring. "Raffaele Ricchezza? My God, what are you doing with him?"

"It's complicated, Monica."

She lowered her voice. "Be careful, Valentina. Whatever you're after, trust no one here."

I pulled her into a tight hug. "You knew my father's work. Orichalcum. Gilgamesh-if you hear anything-"

"I'll try," she said, eyes darting to the villa. "But watch your back. Someone's always watching."

She slipped away, leaving me in the garden.

This wasn't just a deal with the devil. It was a dance with a viper.

And I'd strike first.

Valentina's POV

The Ishtar Hotel's grand ballroom glittered under a canopy of crystal chandeliers, their light fracturing across the marble floor like stars scattered over a Sumerian night.

The charity gala buzzed with Baghdad's elite-diplomats in tailored tuxedos, heiresses dripping in diamonds, important guests and Raffaele Ricchezza, the man who held the room's pulse.

Everyone important was there.

Tonight, though, I, Valentina, his fiancée, would steal the spotlight.

My gown-a vintage champagne masterpiece from Monica Buccella's private vintage collection, my late mother Graziella's friend-clings to my curves, gem-studded and shimmering with every step.

The high slit teases a glimpse of bronzed thigh, but my chest remains a mystery, a deliberate choice to keep them guessing.

My curled hair cascades over my shoulders in perfect curls, crowned by a delicate tiara, a nod to Inanna, the goddess this hotel honors.

My makeup is subtle, sharpening my cheekbones, enhancing my eyes and my lips is a soft rose color.

I smell of vanilla and coconut, warm and tropical, my nails glinting as I hold the gilded leash of my lion.

He's golden, sleek and strong, his amber eyes scanning the crowd like mine-a perfect symbol of my power move.

I had specifically made Monica get me one, she had some connections with retired circus trainers too, I didn't mind.

Raffaele stands by the bar, a glass of water in his hand, his black velvet tuxedo cutting a sharp line.

His dark eyes lock onto me, narrowing as he registers the lion, the tiara, me.

He knows his Sumerian history, knows I'm channeling Inanna, a goddess who tamed men and broke empires.

He knows she represents a powerful, multifaceted figure, deeply associated with seduction, both physical and intellectual. Inanna is also known for her strength and dominance over men.

His jaw tightens, but there's a flicker of heat in his gaze, a crack in his icy control.

I glide toward him, my lion padding silently, the crowd parting like silk.

They all are forced to notice my presence in the room.

"Valentina," he says with his voice low, edged with something dangerous yet attractive. "A lion? Really?" He raised his eyebrow, intrigued.

I tilt my head, letting a coy smile curve my lips, my nails stroking the lion's mane with slow, exaggerated care.

"Purrs like a kitten, Raffaele. Keep him in your garden-he's better than those poorly trained guard dogs of yours."

My tone's velvet, sweet mockery wrapped in flattery, stroking his ego while I pricked his pride with a honey laced voice.

He scoffs, but his eyes linger on my fingers, the way they move, and I feel the air thicken between us.

"A Bold move," he breathed out, stepping closer, close enough for my scent to hit him. "The tiara, the gown... Inanna herself would approve."

"Wouldn't she now?" I purr, my eyes glinting.

"Goddess of love, war and transformation. A woman who walked into the Underworld and came back stronger. Sound familiar?"

His smirk catches me off guard, a flicker of amusement in his stone-cold facade. "You're enjoying this too much."

"Shouldn't I?" I lean in, my vanilla-coconut warmth curling around him. "It's your gala, darling. I'm just... elevating it. You invited me"

Before he can respond, I turn, lion in tow, and glide into the crowd.

Raffaele follows, our fake engagement a polished act.

My diamond ring flashes as I extend my hand to an oil tycoon, my smile a well disguised weapon.

"Mr. Al-Khalidi, such a pleasure," I say with a syrupy voice. "Your wife's foundation-how's the literacy program faring?"

He beams, diving into details, but I steer him elsewhere. "You know, I read the most fascinating article about Sumerian poetry last week. Love poems, so raw and human. Have you explored them?"

Raffaele's jaw twitches beside me-he knows Al-Khalidi's a key investor. He tries to pivot. "Valentina, Mr. Al-Khalidi was just telling me about his new pipeline-"

"Pipelines are so technical," I cut in, waving a hand, my nails catching the chandelier light.

"Poetry, though-that's passion. Don't you agree, Mr. Al-Khalidi?"

The man chuckles, nodding. "You're quite right, Miss Valentina. My wife would love to discuss this with you."

Raffaele shoots me a look-half irritation, half something hotter, something that makes my pulse quicken.

I'm sabotaging his deals, and he's starting to see how easy I make it look.

We weave through the guests, my lion lounging nearby, drawing gasps and whispers that amplify my mystique.

I laugh with a diplomat's wife about Baghdad's hidden gardens, debate art with a tech mogul, and sidestep every attempt Raffaele makes to steer toward business.

My gown shimmers with every step, my scent trailing like a spell.

I feel his eyes on me, tracing the slit of my dress, the curve of my neck.

Then we reach the heart of the room: Dominico and Giuliana Ricchezza, Raffaele's grandparents, the family's iron core.

Dominico's silver hair gleams, his eyes skeptical; Giuliana, in emerald silk, offers a cautious smile.

"Nonno, Nonna," Raffaele says, kissing Giuliana's cheek. "You remember Valentina."

"Of course," Giuliana says, her gaze sweeping over me. "That gown is exquisite, my dear. A stunning design!"

I nod my head, the tiara's gems catching the light.

"You have a keen eye, Signora Ricchezza. It's an honor to wear it." I turn to Dominico, my smile warm and disarming.

"Signor Ricchezza, Raffaele speaks so highly of your legacy. Tell me, what's the secret to building something that lasts?"

He raises a brow, but my sincerity hooks him. "Hard work, loyalty, and a sharp mind," he says with a gruff voice. "You seem to have the last one, at least."

"Oh, I try," I say, laughing softly. "But I'm more curious about you. I hear you met Nonna during a storm in Rome-such a romantic story."

Giuliana's eyes soften. "You've done your homework."

"Only because it's worth knowing," I reply, earnest. "Love like yours-it's rarer than any empire."

Raffaele's watching me, wary but impressed, and I feel a thrill at holding his world in my hands. A tech CEO approaches, eager for Dominico's ear, but I intercept.

"Signor Rossi, have you seen the hotel's Sumerian reliefs?" I ask, guiding him away. "They're breathtaking-let me show you."

Raffaele's patience snaps. He grabs my arm lightly, pulling me aside as the lion yawns nearby. "Valentina," he hisses, voice tight, "Rossi was about to pitch a merger."

"Was he?" I say, all innocence with my lips curving. "I thought he looked bored. Art's more... stimulating, don't you think?"

His grip tightens, but his eyes betray him, tracing the shimmer of my gown, the line of my jaw. "What are you playing at?"

"Playing?" I tilt my head, my scent wrapping us both. "I'm your fiancée, Raffaele. Charming your guests, keeping things... lively."

My fingers brush his lapel, lingering, and I feel him tense. "Unless you'd rather I talk about pipelines?"

He exhales, sharp, caught between fury and something hotter. "You're infuriating."

"And you're intrigued," I challenge with my voice low and sultry. "Admit it-you like it."

He doesn't answer, but his gaze burns, intense, like he's seeing me for the first time.

I'm a storm, a goddess, and I can see him wondering if he's man enough to handle it.

The night stretches on, and I weave through the crowd like Inanna herself, my lion, a silent companion of my power.

I deflect a sheikh's trade questions with a tale of Babylonian star charts, charm someone important's wife with compliments, and leave a trail of frustrated businessmen behind.

Raffaele trails me, his irritation softening into something like admiration.

I lean against a pillar, stroking the lion's fur, my nails glinting under the festive lights.

His eyes meet mine, and I raise my champagne glass in a mock toast.

I know he wished I stroked him instead.

"To Innana," I said, daring him to join me.

He clinks his glass against mine, voice barely a whisper. "To Inanna," he says, the word heavy and loaded, the tension between us building.

"But don't think I'm not watching you."

I step closer, my breath warm against his ear, my scent enveloping him. "Oh, Raffaele," I purr, "I'm counting on it."

I put his unexpectedly around my firm waist. I could see his breath hitch for a brief second.

I hand the lion's leash to a trembling servant with a lazy smile. "He doesn't bite," I say reassuringly, releasing it without a care.

"Unless you run." The poor man freezes as the lion yawns and flops down.

I turn, already forgetting him, and extend a hand toward Raffaele, my fingers beckoning like a queen summoning her favorite.

"Dance with me, caro," I say with a honey voice, dangerously seductive. "Unless you're afraid of being tamed."