The chaos after Sebastian's speech was immediate.
The grand ballroom of the Rosewood Estate erupted into a maelstrom of disbelief. Crystal chandeliers flickered as the press surged forward, cameras flashing in rapid bursts like a volley of gunfire. Murmurs gave way to sharp gasps, and the sweet strains of a string quartet, once echoing gently from the corner, faltered into silence. The champagne-sipping elite, clad in shimmering gowns and crisp tuxedos, stared in stunned disbelief.
In the very center of it all stood David Rosewood—once the untouchable monarch of the luxury wine empire, now frozen beneath the unforgiving glare of the spotlight. The mask of suave charisma he had so carefully curated fractured in real time. His practiced smile faltered, collapsing into something almost childlike—confusion, fear, perhaps even shame.
Uniformed officers, their presence like an invasive species in this cultivated world of opulence, stepped through the crowd with deliberate authority. Guests instinctively parted for them, as if a force greater than etiquette had seized control. The lead officer approached David, his voice composed, professional, but resolute.
"David Rosewood, you are being detained for investigation under charges of fraudulent manufacturing, public endangerment, and financial deception," the officer stated, holding out the documents—warrants that had been signed off mere hours before the gala.
David, usually a man with an answer for everything, said nothing. His throat bobbed as he swallowed, adjusting the cuffs of his hand-tailored suit. There was no argument to be made—the evidence had already been fed to the press, and he had walked right into the lion's mouth, thinking it was a celebration.
Flanked by officers, he moved toward the exit. His shoes clicked on the marble floor—each step an echo of a crumbling dynasty. The chandeliers still sparkled with defiance, but the air had grown cold, the wine soured, the night marred forever.
From her seat near the back, Charlotte's heart thundered. She felt every beat in her throat. Her hands, usually so steady, trembled ever so slightly in her lap. Her crimson eyes—so often a point of whispered curiosity—locked briefly with Sebastian's across the room.
He nodded, solemn and sure.
They had won. The first battle, at least.
---
One Week Later
The world wasted no time. The scandal broke across every major outlet within minutes of David's detainment. Headlines screamed betrayal and deceit. Talk shows dissected Sebastian's speech frame by frame, and online sleuths began assembling the puzzle with giddy fervor.
Charlotte's name surfaced, barely. Whispers only. She was a ghost behind the narrative, her contribution buried beneath the spectacle. Sebastian's team worked tirelessly to keep her involvement obscured—for her safety, and perhaps, for dramatic effect.
David, bolstered by decades of wealth and reputation, was not thrown directly into a cell. Instead, he was confined to a penthouse suite turned surveillance zone. No visitors. No calls without clearance. It was a gilded cage, but a cage nonetheless. He watched the world tear his empire apart from behind bulletproof windows, powerless.
But then—an anomaly.
Lead investigator Elise DuPont, a woman of razor-sharp intellect and an uncanny nose for deception, uncovered a series of encrypted emails and audio memos stored in an abandoned server. The sender was anonymous, the content damning. Voice distortions were peeled back, timestamps traced, metadata dissected.
It all led to Charlotte.
She had found the whistleblower, forged secret lab partnerships, coordinated the data leaks. She had, as Sebastian would later phrase it, "plotted the fall of an empire with the elegance of a violinist and the precision of a surgeon."
When questioned, Sebastian confirmed it without hesitation. "She planned the entire takedown," he said, eyes steady. "I just delivered the final blow."
Elise was impressed. The investigation accelerated. The court ordered David's relocation to an actual detention facility—concrete walls, steel bars, a world devoid of mahogany and Bordeaux.
He was sentenced in record time: 15 years without parole for the first ten.
---
Two Weeks Later
Charlotte stood alone in the boardroom of the Winemaker estate. Morning sunlight filtered through tall windows, casting golden streaks across the polished walnut table. The vineyard outside basked under the gentle caress of a warm breeze, workers moving like small figurines between the rows of grapevines.
Papers—legally binding and notarized—sat stacked before her. Her thumb brushed the final page where David's signature still lingered, an ironic echo of his last bid for more power. He had signed it before the gala, thinking he was solidifying a profitable partnership.
He'd handed her the kingdom on a silver platter.
Charlotte exhaled slowly. No longer trembling. No longer dreaming. Her eyes, always described as unnervingly red, were calm—measured.
The door creaked open.
Sebastian entered, his dark slacks and navy shirt crisp and sharp. In his hands, two cups of steaming coffee. He crossed the room with the easy confidence of someone who had stared down giants and emerged victorious.
"Madam CEO," he said with a smirk, offering her a cup.
She accepted it, the corners of her mouth curling ever so slightly. "We did it."
He tilted his head, his gaze warm but firm. "No. You did it. I just brought the storm. You wrote the script."
She turned toward the vineyard, sipping slowly. The air was different now—lighter, clearer. Not a weight lifted, but redistributed. Now, it sat in her hands. Her responsibility.
"Funny," she murmured. "He thought I was just a girl with red eyes and big dreams."
Sebastian moved beside her, his tone reverent. "But you weren't dreaming."
She turned to him, her voice barely above a whisper. "I was hunting."
He nodded. "And you don't miss."
Silence hung between them, rich with unspoken history. Then she straightened her shoulders and set her coffee down.
"Now that Winemaker's mine... I'm rebuilding it. From the ground up. No more lies. No more poison in a bottle. Just clean earth. Clean wine. Clean truth."
Sebastian lifted his cup in salute. "To truth. And to Red's reign."
She laughed, soft but genuine, the sound echoing gently across the polished floors. Outside, a hawk soared above the fields. A new era had begun.
---
Elsewhere
In a small, fluorescent-lit cell buried beneath layers of cement and steel, David Rosewood sat on a cot, staring at the wall. The silence was oppressive, his designer watch now replaced with a plain prison-issue uniform. His hands—once tools of seduction and showmanship—lay limp in his lap.
He had once ruled an empire built on illusion.
Now, he was merely a man who had underestimated the girl with red eyes.
After a month Charlotte got a call from Sebastian.