Chapter 7 Royal Crisis

The morning after our cellar confrontation, I found Damien on the terrace, freshly showered but wearing yesterday's rumpled clothes, nursing an espresso and what appeared to be a substantial hangover. He squinted against the Tuscan sunlight as I approached.

How's your head? I asked, taking the chair opposite him.

Like a barrel of Sangiovese fell on it. He rubbed his temples. Did I... say anything particularly regrettable last night?

I poured myself coffee from the pot Matteo had left. You admitted to hating my family for twenty years but falling for me in ten days. Then you sang an off-key rendition of 'My Way' to a rack of Chianti.

His eyes widened in horror.

I'm joking about the singing, I relented. The rest... well, I'll attribute it to the wine.

Something like relief crossed his face, followed quickly by his usual composure. The Sheikh's delegation arrives tomorrow, he said, changing the subject. They want to meet in Milan.

Milan? I frowned. I thought the meeting was scheduled for next week in London.

Change of plans. Sheikh Abdullah's son is attending Milan Fashion Week and suggested combining trips. Damien set down his cup with precision. They've specifically requested your presence.

My presence? Why?

Apparently, you made quite an impression on Tariq at the museum gala. His tone was carefully neutral, but I detected a hint of that same jealousy from before. They consider you integral to the partnership now.

I hid my surprise behind my coffee cup. What time do we leave?

The helicopter returns in three hours. He hesitated. Unless you'd prefer to make your own way there. Given our... renegotiated terms.

The offer of independence was new—a small concession, but significant from a man who controlled everything. We can travel together, I decided. For appearance's sake.

He nodded, relief barely visible in the slight relaxation of his shoulders. There's another matter we should discuss before leaving. Your uncle Lorenzo has been trying to reach you.

My cup froze halfway to my lips. Lorenzo? How do you know?

He called the London house three times yesterday. When he couldn't reach you, he called my office directly.

What did he want?

He wouldn't say. Only that it was urgent family business.

Lorenzo had been conspicuously absent during our previous visit to the estate, supposedly on a sales trip to Switzerland. I hadn't spoken to him in months, not since discovering the extent of his financial mismanagement that had necessitated my deal with Damien.

Whatever it is, it can wait, I decided. The Sheikh's meeting takes priority.

Damien studied me over the rim of his cup. Family before business was always your motto, as I recall.

Lorenzo isn't family, I said flatly. Not anymore.

---

The Grand Hotel et de Milan exuded old-world luxury, its nineteenth-century façade hiding modern amenities behind classic elegance. Our suite overlooked the historic center, the Duomo's spires visible in the distance. Despite our renegotiated terms, we were still sharing accommodations—necessary for maintaining appearances.

As I unpacked, Damien paced the sitting room, reviewing notes on his tablet. The meeting is at four, he said. Traditional coffee ceremony first, then business discussion.

Coffee ceremony? I paused, a dress halfway to the closet.

Middle Eastern hospitality custom. The host—in this case, you—prepares coffee for the guests. He glanced up. It's considered an honor.

I've never made Middle Eastern coffee before.

There's a protocol. I've arranged for someone to walk you through it beforehand.

I placed the dress on a hanger. Why me? Why not have the hotel staff handle it?

Because Sheikh Abdullah specifically requested that you do it. Damien set his tablet down. It's a test, Elena. Of our commitment to tradition and respect for their customs.

A test I'm unprepared for.

Which is why Mrs. Nazari will be here in thirty minutes to teach you. He checked his watch. I have a preliminary meeting with their financial advisors. Will you be alright?

The question—genuine concern rather than logistical management—caught me off guard. I'll manage, I said. I've handled delicate wine tastings for French critics. How hard can coffee be?

His almost-smile appeared briefly. Don't underestimate the importance of this ritual. The Sheikh takes his traditions very seriously.

After Damien left, Mrs. Nazari—a dignified Iranian woman with hennaed hair and formidable posture—arrived to instruct me in the proper preparation of Arabic coffee. The process was indeed elaborate: precisely ground beans, cardamom added at exactly the right moment, the specific technique for pouring that resulted in the proper foam.

You must never fill the cup more than halfway, she instructed, demonstrating the shallow pour. And always serve the eldest first, using your right hand only.

For two hours, I practiced until my arm ached from the precise pouring technique and my kitchen skills were thoroughly humbled. When Mrs. Nazari finally declared me acceptable—not perfect, but acceptable, I felt as though I'd passed a particularly demanding exam.

At precisely four o'clock, Sheikh Abdullah and his entourage arrived at our suite. The Sheikh, regal in traditional dress, greeted Damien with genuine warmth before turning to me.

Mrs. Blackwood, he said, taking my offered hand. Your beauty brightens Milan even on this cloudy day.

Your Excellency honors us with your presence, I replied, the formal greeting Damien had coached me on.

Tariq stood slightly behind his uncle, his smile friendly as he greeted me. Elena, wonderful to see you again.

I felt Damien stiffen beside me at the casual use of my first name, but his expression revealed nothing as he guided our guests to the sitting area. Four other men—financial advisors and family members, according to Damien's briefing—completed the party.

The moment of truth arrived: the coffee ceremony. The suite had been arranged with traditional low seating around a central table where the coffee equipment waited. I knelt on the embroidered cushion, acutely aware of six pairs of eyes watching my every move.

With hands I forced not to tremble, I began the ritual: heating the brass pot, measuring the dark beans, adding the cardamom at precisely the right moment. Steam rose as the mixture came to a simmer—once, twice, three times as tradition dictated.

Your wife has been well-trained in our customs, Sheikh Abdullah observed to Damien. Most Westerners rush the process.

Elena understands the importance of tradition, Damien replied, his voice carrying a pride that sounded surprisingly genuine. Her family's vineyard has maintained the same production methods for generations.

As I reached the pouring stage—the most difficult part—a subtle shift in the air-conditioning sent a draft across the table. The delicate foam on the coffee's surface rippled, then collapsed just as I tilted the pot toward the Sheikh's cup.

Horror washed through me. Without the foam, the coffee was ruined by traditional standards—bitter and improperly prepared. I froze, the pot suspended over the tiny cup, aware that I was about to fail spectacularly at this crucial test.

A quick glance at Damien showed tension in the set of his jaw. This wasn't just about coffee—it was about respect, about proving we valued the Sheikh's customs enough to execute them perfectly. About securing a billion-euro contract that hinged on cultural sensitivity as much as financial acumen.

In that split second, I made a decision. Setting down the pot, I smiled directly at the Sheikh. Your Excellency, I must apologize. The coffee is not perfect. I would be honored to prepare a fresh pot worthy of your presence.

Surprise flickered across the older man's face, followed by something that might have been approval. Before he could respond, however, Tariq leaned forward.

Actually, he said with an easy smile, in my mother's region, it's considered good fortune when the foam disperses before pouring—a sign that the gathering will be prosperous for all involved.

A diplomatic fiction, clearly, but offered with such charm that it diffused the tension immediately. The Sheikh chuckled. My nephew has always been quick with convenient traditions. But perhaps he is right this time. He gestured to the pot. Please, continue.

I poured the coffee, mentally thanking Tariq for his intervention while noticing Damien's subtle shift of posture—a slight stiffening at the younger man's casual rescue of his wife. When I offered the first cup to the Sheikh, he accepted with a nod.

In my country, he said, we say that bitter coffee shared with friends becomes sweet on the tongue.

He took a sip, then placed the cup down with deliberate care. His expression revealed nothing as a heavy silence fell over the room. Then, to my astonishment, he threw his head back and laughed.

Truly terrible! he declared, eyes twinkling. Possibly the worst Arabic coffee I have tasted outside an American hotel.

My face burned with embarrassment, but the Sheikh raised a hand. But served with honesty and humility, which matters far more than perfection. He turned to Damien. Your wife values truth over appearance. This is good. Too many Westerners try to pretend mastery of things they have just learned.

Elena has many qualities I've come to admire, Damien said, his eyes meeting mine briefly. Authenticity chief among them.

The coffee ceremony smoothly transitioned into business discussions. I sat quietly beside Damien as the men discussed investment terms, regional regulations, projected returns. Technical language flowed around me, occasionally interspersed with cultural references and personal anecdotes.

Midway through the meeting, Damien's phone vibrated. He checked it discreetly, then excused himself for a moment. When he returned, his expression had hardened slightly, though only I, who had studied his microexpressions for months, would notice.

Is everything alright? I asked quietly when the Sheikh was engaged with one of his advisors.

Market fluctuation, Damien replied, the familiar code for 'not now.' But his hand found mine beneath the table, a brief squeeze conveying something more urgent than his words suggested.

After the meeting concluded with tentative agreements and promises of formal contracts to follow, the Sheikh and his party departed for another engagement. The moment the door closed behind them, Damien's professional facade dropped.

Rossi Estate shares are being shorted, he said without preamble. Someone's making aggressive moves against your company on the Milan exchange.

What? How is that possible? We're a private company.

Your limited public offering from three years ago—the one your uncle arranged to raise capital for expansion. Damien was already on his laptop, fingers flying across the keyboard. Someone's been quietly accumulating shares for weeks and is now driving the price down.

A cold feeling settled in my stomach. Lorenzo.

Possibly. But he'd need backing—significant capital to execute this kind of maneuver. Damien's eyes narrowed at the screen. There's another player involved. Someone with intimate knowledge of both Rossi's financials and market dynamics.

Who would— I stopped as realization dawned. Victoria Pembroke.

Damien's head snapped up. What makes you say that?

The way she looked at us at the charity gala. And didn't you say she works in finance? I moved to look over his shoulder at the screen of trading data. She's helping Lorenzo take revenge on both of us—me for marrying you, and you for rejecting her.

His jaw tightened. It's possible. She's at Davidson Hughes now—they have the resources to coordinate something like this.

What does this mean for the estate?

If the share price drops low enough, a hostile takeover becomes possible. Someone could acquire controlling interest.

The room seemed to tilt beneath me. They could take my family's vineyard?

Not if we move first. Damien was already dialing his London office. I need to stabilize the price until we can determine the full extent of the threat.

As he issued rapid instructions to his team, my phone rang—Lorenzo's number. After a moment's hesitation, I answered.

Elena, thank God, my uncle's voice came through, uncharacteristically agitated. I've been trying to reach you for days.

I know why you're calling, Lorenzo, I said coldly. Your market manipulation hasn't gone unnoticed.

What? No, Elena, listen—I'm trying to warn you. Someone's targeting the estate. They approached me weeks ago, wanting inside information, offering to clear my debts.

And you took the deal, I said, disgust coloring my words.

No! Well... yes, initially. But I didn't know what they were planning. His voice dropped. It's not just financial, Elena. They're planning to destroy the Rossi name completely. There's talk of revealing old scandals, falsifying quality reports...

Who's behind it?

A consortium. Led by Victoria Pembroke and... He hesitated. James Blackwood.

Blackwood? I repeated, loud enough that Damien looked up sharply from his call. Who is James Blackwood?

Damien's cousin. Harold's nephew. He's apparently been nursing the same grudge all these years.

The pieces clicked into place—not just a jilted ex-girlfriend but a family vendetta spanning generations. As I relayed this information to Damien, his expression darkened.

James, he muttered, ending his call. I should have known.

You have a cousin?

Second cousin. We're not close. His understatement was belied by the tension in his voice. He always resented that my father was Harold's favorite. When I succeeded in finance where James failed, the resentment grew.

The situation was unraveling faster than I could process. My family's legacy and Damien's business empire were under simultaneous attack, orchestrated by people with intimate knowledge of our vulnerabilities.

What do we do? I asked, hating the helplessness in my voice.

Damien's expression shifted from concern to determination. His hand found mine, his grip firm and reassuring. We fight back. Together.

The door burst open before I could respond. Tariq Al-Fayez stood in the doorway, slightly breathless.

Forgive the intrusion, he said, but my uncle sent me back when we received news of the market movement. He feared you might be under attack.

Damien eyed him warily. And he sent you to... what? Observe our downfall?

To offer assistance. Tariq stepped fully into the room. The Sheikh values loyalty and family above all. He believes you two represent both. He pulled out his phone. I have his authorization to commit resources to stabilize your position until a permanent solution can be implemented.

I looked between Tariq and Damien, witnessing a silent communication pass between them—an assessment, a calculation of trust.

Finally, Damien nodded. We accept the Sheikh's generous offer. With conditions.

Name them, Tariq replied.

Full transparency on all movements. And... Damien's hand found mine again, recognition that Elena retains final authority over all decisions regarding Rossi Estate.

Tariq smiled. My uncle would expect nothing less.

As the two men bent over their devices, coordinating a financial counteroffensive, I watched Damien with new eyes. He could have used this crisis to seize control of my family's vineyard—the perfect culmination of his original revenge plan. Instead, he was fighting to protect it, publicly acknowledging my authority.

When reporters called minutes later—news of the market manipulation already leaking to financial press—Damien took the call on speaker. His response would become the headline in next morning's Financial Times:

My wife is not only my partner in life but my most trusted business ally. Any attack on Rossi Estate is an attack on Blackwood Group, and we will respond accordingly.

As he put down the phone, our eyes met across the room. In that moment, something shifted between us—something deeper than contracts or convenience, something neither of us had anticipated when we signed our marriage agreement.

Did you mean that? I asked quietly when Tariq stepped out to take a call.

Damien's expression was more open than I'd ever seen it. Every word.