Page 10 of Brutal Heir

Judging by the expensive car, tailored suit, and Rolex Daytona Oyster Albino on his wrist, this man wasn’t just rich—he was intimidatingly stupid rich.

The idea of sitting across a table from this man in what would undoubtedly be an elegant restaurant, trying to act sophisticated while eating, filled me with horror.

Before I could think of an answer, my body sagged with relief when the sharp glass pyramid of the Louvre came into view.

With a shaking hand, I flicked the unlock button and threw open my door before the car had even come to a full stop.

I shrugged out of his coat and dropped it onto the seat in my rush to escape. “I can’t have dinner with you. I’ll be too busy with the show. Thanks again.”

He leaned forward. “Take my card. You’ll need it when you change your mind.”

Not knowing what else to do while drivers laid on their horns, I took the card from his hand and slammed the door shut.

As I made my way around the back of the car and across the large block-stoned pavement in front of the glass pyramid, Mark, the photographer for my social media shoots, came running up to me, holding a jacket over his head.

“Where the hell have you been? Little Dick is losing his mind.”

“Little Dick” was Mark’s secret nickname for Édouard Sauvage-Lafleur.

As a famous fashion photographer, he could afford to be cavalier about the man. I couldn’t.

Looking past me, he gestured with his head. “Who’s that man?”

Following Mark’s gaze, I realized the handsome stranger had exited the car to watch me.

I gave a slight wave before ducking beneath Mark’s arm to take cover under the jacket while we raced toward the side entrance reserved for fashion staff. “He insisted on giving me a ride when it started raining.”

He frowned down at me. “Sabrina…”

I groaned. “I know! I know! Don’t go all big brother on me. I know it was risky.”

Since Mark was more experienced with the chaos of working the Parisian fashion shows, he had taken me under his wing. He even hooked me up with the small basement apartment I shared with him and five other fashion staff during the stretch. It was crazy small, and I was sleeping on a mat on the floor, but it was all part of the experience of fashion week.

He swiped the business card from my hand, his eyes widening. “Sebastian Diamanti. Jesus Christ, Sabrina.”

Sebastian.

The name suited him. Sophisticated and just a bit standoffish.

“Diamanti. Why does that name sound familiar?”

His response was tight. “They control the world’s diamond supply.”

Startled, I glanced behind us again.

Sebastian still stood there, arms crossed over his chest, heedless of the rain.

Watching me.

“Holy shit,” I whispered.

He was the Sebastian Diamanti of the infamous House of Diamanti, an iconic jewelry and diamond distribution company.

Mark snapped his fingers in front of my face to get my attention. “You need to listen to me. Stay away from Sebastian Diamanti. He’s…not safe.”

“He’s a CEO of a jewelry company, not some criminal.”

Lowering my chin, I couldn’t resist looking back over at him one more time.