On Fifth Avenue at night, various luxury carriages were parked in front of a lavish mansion.
Electric lights illuminated the entire street as bright as day.
This charity ball, nominally to raise funds for Civil War widows, was actually a gathering for the New York business community to show their loyalty to the Argyle Family.
Almost every prominent figure on Wall Street and Broadway had received an invitation.
In the banquet hall, a massive crystal chandelier cast a brilliant glow. A band in the corner played a Strauss waltz.
Waiters wove through the crowd carrying silver trays filled with champagne.
Men wore black tailcoats, and women wore expensive jewelry. The air was thick with a mixture of perfume and cigar smoke.
At the entrance of the hall.
Gaston was dressed in formal evening wear.
He presented two invitations he had bought for a high price from a cotton merchant.
The doorman checked the names and stepped aside.
Gaston took a step back.
Isabella took his arm and walked into the hall.
She wore no extravagant jewelry, only an extremely form-fitting dark blue silk gown.
But... that was enough.
Because the moment she entered the hall, the surrounding conversations seemed to pause briefly.
Many men's eyes were involuntarily drawn to her; some even swallowed hard.
What an alluring figure.
And that seemingly innate temperament and impeccable features made her look out of place in this New York social circle filled with the stench of money, yet she was fatally attractive.
"Miss Martin, we're in,"
Gaston said in a low voice, carefully using her alias.
"Steady, Gaston. Don't look around like a country bumpkin."
Isabella maintained a perfect smile, her gaze seemingly sweeping casually through the crowd.
She knew her advantages well.
These American capitalists, though they held enough gold to buy small European countries, were extremely insecure at their core.
They craved European aristocratic heritage, that elegance refined over hundreds of years.
And she was the ultimate embodiment of that elegance.
She wanted Felix Argyle to fall in love with her, to be obsessed with her, and eventually willingly pull out his checkbook to fund the Bourbon restoration.
8:30 PM.
The noise at the main entrance of the hall suddenly grew louder.
The crowd that had been gathered in conversation automatically parted to both sides, clearing a wide path.
Felix walked in.
Because he had plans, he didn't bring Katherine.
Tonight he wore a custom black suit, no tie, with the top button of his collar undone.
That innate arrogance made everyone who tried to step forward to talk feel an invisible pressure.
Arthur Hamilton immediately went up to meet him.
"Boss, you're here." Arthur bowed respectfully.
"Mm..."
Isabella stood by a marble pillar, champagne in hand.
She took a deep breath, adjusting her breathing and her gaze. She knew Felix had seen her.
Felix had indeed seen her.
From a distance of over ten meters, Felix's gaze fell on this Bourbon Princess, whose background Timmy had thoroughly investigated.
Deep in his heart, the "fun-seeker" mentality belonging to his soul from a past life in world, which had been suppressed for a long time, emerged.
In recent years, he had been fighting his way through America, from hails of bullets to financial meat grinders.
Every day he faced old foxes full of schemes like Grant, Old Morgan, and Bismarck.
Winning felt great, but it was also getting a bit tedious.
Now Washington had bowed, Wall Street had submitted, and even the Iron Chancellor of Europe was extending an olive branch.
He no longer needed to tread as cautiously as before.
In this nineteenth century, where entertainment was extremely scarce,
a distressed European princess suddenly popped up, attempting to use beauty and so-called temperament to set a trap for him, wanting to use him as an ATM for a restored dynasty.
This was simply a top-tier drama delivered right to his door.
"Expose her directly? Kick her out?" Felix sneered in his mind.
"That would be too boring. Since Her Highness wants to play a scene of Cinderella and the Beast, if I don't cooperate, wouldn't I be wasting her overseas ticket?"
Felix hid the playfulness in his eyes.
His expression changed rapidly, shedding that predatory coldness and replacing it with a mix of wonder, possessiveness, and a hint of a nouveau riche's "pretended sophistication."
He strode toward Isabella, and the crowd automatically made way for him.
Isabella watched Felix approach, her heart pounding, but her expression remained one of perfect reserve and slight surprise.
"Hello, Madam. The aria at the Starlight Theater was wonderful."
Felix stopped a step away from her.
He didn't ask her name directly like those crude American businessmen; instead, he looked at her with the eyes of someone admiring a work of art.
"I thought that was your limit, but I was wrong. The stage lights are far less real than you look now."
A flash of triumph crossed Isabella's eyes.
As expected, men are all the same.
As long as the right entry point was found, this tyrant of Wall Street was nothing more than a mortal easily dazzled by beauty.
"You flatter me, sir."
Isabella bowed her head slightly, revealing a length of her slender, fair neck.
"My name is Isabella Martin, just a common singer from a Paris troupe. It is my honor to receive your praise."
"Felix Argyle." Felix extended his hand.
Isabella gently placed her velvet-gloved right hand in Felix's palm.
Felix grasped her hand with slight pressure, holding it about half a second longer than normal social etiquette required before naturally letting go.
This perfectly timed physical contact made Isabella even more certain that he had taken the bait.
"Paris is a fine place; it's a pity it was ruined by Prussian gunfire."
Felix picked up a glass of champagne from a passing waiter's tray.
"Is a delicate work of art like you getting used to being here in New York?"
Felix's words carried clear probing and concern.
Isabella lowered her eyes, her long lashes casting shadows over her eyes.
Sighing softly, her tone revealed a sorrow that was neither humble nor overbearing.
"France is bleeding, Mr. Argyle. Art is useless in the face of war. We came to this New World just to find a haven where song can continue to survive."
She looked up, her eyes as deep as the Mediterranean, filled with fragile sadness and hope, looking directly at Felix.
"Though New York is full of the noise of steel, I have heard that its master possesses a heart that knows how to appreciate."
Felix applauded wildly in his mind.
Look at this...
This line delivery, this progression of emotion in her eyes.
In his past life, she could definitely win an Oscar for Best Actress.
"If the master of New York cannot protect true beauty, then what is the point of him earning so many dollars?"
Felix cooperatively gave the answer she wanted.
He intentionally made his tone sound a bit domineering, with a hint of calculated extravagance to win a beauty's favor.
"Let's go, Miss Martin."
Felix turned slightly and made a gesture of invitation.
"The air here is too stifling. Let me take you to the terrace. I need to ask you what real Parisian opera is all about."
Isabella nodded with a smile and lightly hooked her hand onto Felix's arm.
The two walked side-by-side out of the banquet hall.
Gaston stood where he was, breathing a long sigh of relief as he watched this scene.
It seemed the first step was a success.
This American capitalist emperor had already fallen into the gentle trap so carefully woven by Her Highness.
The large terrace outside the banquet hall was spacious and quiet.
The early spring night wind in New York still carried a bone-chilling cold.
On the street below the terrace, the carriage lights resembled a flowing river of stars. In the distance, the Hudson River appeared deep and silent in the night.
Isabella walked to the marble railing.
A cold wind blew through her thin silk gown; she instinctively shivered slightly, hugging her bare arms.
It was a perfectly executed signal of vulnerability.
Understanding the cue, Felix cooperatively took off his heavy, custom-made suit jacket—still warm and carrying a faint scent of cigars—and stepped forward to drape it over her shoulders.
"Spring in New York isn't as gentle as in Southern France, Miss Martin."
Felix stood by her side, playing the role of a considerate yet assertive gentleman.
"Thank you, Mr. Argyle."
Isabella did not refuse.
She pulled the jacket, which smelled of the man, tighter around her and turned to look at Felix.
"You can call me Isabella." Her voice sounded somewhat ethereal in the night wind.
"Then you can call me Felix."
Felix leaned against the railing, holding his glass of champagne.
"You sang 'The Marriage of Figaro' at the theater. But I could hear something in your voice... how should I put it? A sense of being unreconciled. Like a swan trapped in a cage."
Felix deliberately threw out a slightly artistic, perhaps even cheesy, topic.
He knew that to deal with a woman who prided herself on her nobility, he had to show that he could "understand" her soul.
All those hours spent scrolling through TikTok weren't for nothing.
Isabella's eyes lit up.
She felt that this American nouveau riche actually possessed a surprising level of perceptiveness.
"You have an incredibly sharp ear, Felix."
Isabella looked at the distant lights.
"In Paris, art is free. But the war took everything. Theaters were requisitioned as infirmaries, and the nobility fled in all directions. Singers like us can only drift across the sea like Gypsies."
She turned around and leaned her back against the railing, facing Felix.
"After coming to New York, I saw the towering buildings and countless factories. I admit, the power here is awe-inspiring. But the people here..."
She paused deliberately, showing a perfectly timed, bitter smile.
"They only care about the rise and fall of stocks. The way those men look at me... it's like they're looking at a commodity that can be bought with dollars."
"A commodity?"
Felix let out a low chuckle.
He took a small step forward, closing the physical distance between them.
Then he looked down at Isabella.
He was close enough to smell the expensive and unique scent of iris perfume on her.
"Isabella, in America, everything can be a commodity. But that doesn't mean a commodity has no dignity."
Felix's gaze became deep and focused, perfectly masking an aggression that suggested he was deeply captivated.
"Those who look at you with vulgar eyes do so because they are too poor. They can only afford a ticket for one night of your performance."
Felix raised his glass and lightly clinked it against the one in Isabella's hand.
"But if it were me, I would buy the entire theater. I'd lock the doors and have you sing only for me. That's not a transaction; that's a collection."
These words were full of the overbearing dominance and romance typical of the nouveau riche.
Isabella's eyelashes fluttered slightly.
She was ecstatic inside.
This desire for control was exactly what she wanted.
As long as he felt a strong sense of possession over her, there was hope for filling the House of Bourbon's financial gap.
"You truly are a terrifying man, Felix."
Isabella lowered her head slightly, putting on a shy expression that suggested she was being suppressed by his aura yet was faintly expectant.
"In Europe, men use sonnets to express their affection. But you... you go straight for the theater's title deed."
"Sorry, I don't understand poetry."
Felix admitted it without hesitation, perfectly maintaining his persona as a wealthy man with no cultural depth.
"I only know the fastest way to get what I want."
Looking at the Bourbon princess and her superb acting before him, Felix was laughing inside.
"How interesting. This woman's head is filled with nothing but how to trade her body and tears for my money, and I have to pretend to be blinded by lust to play along."
Felix complained internally, but his outward performance of deep affection was flawless.
"Isabella," Felix's voice softened slightly.
"The Starlight Theater is a bit run-down; it's not worthy of your voice. Tomorrow, I'll have my secretary talk to your troupe's manager."
Isabella's heart tightened, but she feigned surprise on the surface.
"Ah? Talk about what? We've signed a six-month performance contract."
"Then pay the liquidated damages and tear it up."
Felix waved his hand dismissively.
"I can establish a new entertainment company specifically to build the most luxurious theater in New York for you. If you're willing, you can decide on all the plays and costumes."
Felix threw out a bait that would drive any actress wild.
Because he knew that what Isabella wanted wasn't a theater. It was money—an entry point to control his capital chain.
As expected, Isabella did not refuse outright.
She looked up, her eyes filled with touched emotion and a perfectly calibrated sense of trepidation.
"Felix... you don't need to do so much for me, especially since we've only just met."
"It's alright, Isabella. In business, I never look at how long I've known someone. I look at their value."
Felix reached out and naturally pulled the jacket on Isabella's shoulders a bit higher.
"It's too cold out here; let's go inside. Tomorrow afternoon, I'll send a carriage to your troupe to pick you up. I'll show you what the real New York looks like."
Isabella nodded with a submissive look.
The two walked back into the banquet hall.
Felix's ease in social circles caused Isabella to completely lower her guard.
She was convinced that she had successfully driven a perfume-scented nail into the heart of this cold-blooded oligarch.
Ten minutes later, Felix left the party early.
The black carriage traveled along Fifth Avenue.
Inside the carriage.
Felix leaned back against the leather seat and casually loosened his collar.
The deep affection and infatuation on his face vanished instantly, replaced by the extreme satisfaction of someone who had just finished watching a comedy.
Frost sat opposite him, cautiously observing his boss.
"Boss, back on the terrace... were you really planning to build a theater for her?"
Frost couldn't quite gauge his boss's thoughts.
Because he had never seen his boss so attentive to any woman before.
"Build a theater? Ha... Edward, what kind of joke is that?"
Felix burst into laughter, leaving Frost feeling bewildered.
"Alright, Frost. Go inform Timmy." Felix stopped laughing, his gaze turning playful.
"Have his scouts keep a close eye on that Gaston. I want to know how many telegrams they've sent to Europe these past few days and which New York banks they've contacted."
"As for that Isabella..."
Felix licked his upper lip, as if relishing an interesting game.
"Since she wants to play the noble act and treat me like a sucker—fine. Make arrangements for tomorrow afternoon."
Felix's instructions left Frost wide-eyed with surprise.
"Don't arrange any high-end restaurants, and don't arrange any carriage tours through Central Park."
Felix looked out the window.
"Get my private train ready. Tomorrow afternoon, I want this noble Bourbon princess to get a good whiff of exactly what American money smells like."
The following afternoon.
New York Grand Central Terminal.
A low-key but well-crafted carriage stopped at the station's side entrance.
Isabella stepped down from the carriage, supported by Gaston.
Today, she wore an off-white wool coat and a wide-brimmed hat with a veil, holding a delicate ivory-handled parasol. She had dressed herself like a delicate white rose about to go on an outing.
Because she thought Felix would take her for a tour of a manor on Long Island or to some heavily guarded private club.
She had even rehearsed dozens of conversations in her mind on how to further control Felix in a romantic atmosphere.
"Miss Martin."
Frost stood on the platform holding a briefcase, giving a slight, expressionless bow.
"The boss is waiting for you on the train. Please follow me."
Isabella glanced at the behemoth puffing steam and sporting pure black carriages, frowning slightly.
"Where are we going, Mr. Frost? Are we having afternoon tea on the train?"
Isabella maintained an elegant smile.
"You'll know once you're on board."
Frost said no more and turned to lead the way.
Gaston tried to follow but was expressionlessly blocked by two Vanguard Security guards.
"Sorry, sir. The boss only invited Miss Martin." The security guard's hand rested on his waist.
Isabella looked back at Gaston, giving him a reassuring look. Then, lifting her skirt, she boarded the carriage alone.
As the carriage door closed, the train let out a deafening whistle and slowly pulled out of the station.
The interior of the carriage was luxurious, like a mobile palace.
Felix, wearing a dark gray tweed vest with sleeves rolled up to reveal his sturdy forearms, sat at the head of a mahogany long table, with financial reports for various companies in front of him.
Seeing Isabella enter, Felix put down his fountain pen.
"You're here. Have a seat."
Felix pointed to the chair opposite him, showing none of the excessive attentiveness he had displayed the previous night.
Instead, in this private space, he showed an unmasked desire for control.
Isabella sat down in the chair and removed her veil.
"Felix, where are we going?"
She looked around; this carriage was filled with a cold, hard, masculine aura of power.
"To see my kingdom, of course."
Felix picked up the black coffee on the table and took a sip.
He looked at Isabella's delicate outfit and laughed inwardly.
There will be a time for you to cry later.
A few hours later, the train slowed down in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania.
No flowers, no scenery.
What met Isabella's eyes was black coal smoke that blotted out the sky.
Outside the window, there were mountains of coke and dark red iron ore everywhere.
The deafening roar of massive machinery filtered through the thick glass of the windows, still making one's eardrums ache.
"We're here."
Felix stood up and grabbed a canvas windbreaker hanging nearby, covered in the smell of machine oil and dust.
He didn't hand the coat to Isabella but threw it directly to her.
"Put it on. The sparks outside will burn holes in that expensive silk of yours."
Isabella was stunned.
She held the rough, foul-smelling canvas coat, staring blankly at Felix.
This was worlds apart from the romantic date she had envisioned.
"Felix... what is this place?" Her voice trembled slightly.
"Braddock Steel Works. I just invested two million dollars a few days ago to take over half of its control." Felix walked to the carriage door.
"Come down. Let me teach you how America's checks are printed."
The carriage door opened.
A blast of scorching heat mixed with the smell of sulfur, coal smoke, and rust rushed toward them.
Isabella was choked into a violent coughing fit.
She had to put on the oversized canvas coat and follow Felix down the steps.
Felix walked ahead with large strides, completely ignoring Isabella, who was wearing high-heeled leather boots behind him.
When they entered the steelmaking workshop.
Isabella was completely awestruck by the sight before her.
Massive blast furnaces, dozens of meters high, were letting out terrifying roars. Molten iron poured from the furnace mouths like waterfalls, the dark red glow illuminating the entire workshop.
Hundreds of bare-chested, soot-covered workers were swinging shovels in the high heat.
Giant steam hammers struck dark red steel ingots with immense force, each impact making the ground tremble violently.
There was no Chopin or Sonnets here.
Only muscle, steel, and the purest industrial violence.
The scene before her made Isabella feel an unprecedented sense of fear and insignificance.
She had seen the most luxurious balls at the Palace of Versailles, but she had never seen this kind of pure industrial power.
The royal bloodline she was so proud of in her heart seemed ridiculous and powerless before this roaring steel beast.
Felix stopped.
He turned his head and looked at Isabella, whose face was flushed red from the steam and firelight, and who even looked somewhat terrified.
He leaned his mouth close to her ear.
To be heard over the roar of the machines, Felix had to raise his voice.
"Do you see, Isabella!"
Felix pointed at the pouring molten iron.
"This is my theater! This is the symphony I listen to every day!"
There was a wild dominance in Felix's eyes, perfectly playing the part of an industrial tyrant who controlled money and power.
"You said last night that the art of Paris was destroyed by war and needed a sanctuary."
Felix grabbed Isabella's waist and pulled her close to him.
"In Europe, aristocrats rely on bloodlines and crowns to rule the commoners. But in America, in this workshop, only steel and dollars are the sole masters!"
"If you want my money, you have to understand that every dollar of mine is boiled out of these fifteen-hundred-degree steel furnaces. It comes with sparks and machine oil, with the blood of workers!"
Isabella was completely suppressed by Felix's aura.
The words she had prepared to bewitch men could not be uttered at this moment.
She could only stare blankly at this man who looked like a demon god in the firelight, suddenly realizing she was wrong.
She was not simply facing an upstart eager to associate with elegance.
But a tyrant who had forged his own empire with steel and fire.
He didn't need to go to Paris to find aristocratic air, because he himself was the most ruthless and powerful emperor of this New World.
And Felix, looking at Isabella's face which had lost its disguise due to shock and fear, felt extremely satisfied.
"Want to use me as an ATM for your restoration?"
Amidst the deafening sound of iron striking, Felix sneered inwardly.
"First, beside my steel furnace, burn that hypocritical aristocratic arrogance clean for me.
Isabella stood frozen in place.
The shock and fear she felt in that moment were real, but she was, after all, a descendant of the House of Bourbon who had received a courtly education.
Once the initial panic receded, her brain began to work rapidly under these extremely harsh conditions.
She heard Felix's words: "If you want my money, you have to understand..."
From his rough actions and oppressive words, she keenly sensed that this man was testing her.
He was treating her like one of those socialites who attempted to trade their beauty for dollars.
That was why he used this most savage form of industrial violence to destroy her psychological defenses.
If she showed greed for money now, or if she trembled and begged for mercy out of fear...
Then this trip to America would be a total failure.
Isabella took a sharp breath, which was filled with the pungent smell of sulfur.
She looked up, her deep eyes meeting Felix's aggressive gaze head-on.
Her eyes turned red in an instant.
Tears welled up in her eyes but did not immediately fall. On her beautiful face, rendered somewhat pale by the glow of the furnace, this restrained grievance was more lethal than a loud wail.
"Is this your purpose, Mr. Argyle?"
Isabella's voice trembled slightly; she had to raise her volume to be heard over the sound of the iron being forged.
"You brought me here, to this hell filled with fire and coal smoke. Was it just to flaunt your power? To prove that every dollar of yours is stained with the blood of workers?"
She bit her lower lip, and tears finally slid down her cheeks, mixing with the coal dust in the air and leaving a faint trail on her fair skin.
"Did you think I approached you for your checkbook?"
Isabella's voice carried a sense of deeply stung humiliation.
She suddenly reached out and tore off the oversized canvas coat that smelled of machine oil.
The rough canvas scraped against her silk gown, making a harsh friction sound.
She slammed the coat, meant to block sparks, onto the iron plate at Felix's feet.
"I crossed the ocean to come to America, thinking I had escaped the fires of war in Europe and could find a truly strong man to rely on in the New World."
Isabella stared at Felix, her eyes filled with disappointment.
"But I was wrong. Your heart is more pathetic than those misers who only know how to calculate pennies. You don't even understand what feelings are; you treat every woman who approaches you as goods with a price tag!"
Isabella turned around, straightening her back.
"I don't need your theater, and I don't need your dollars."
Wearing high-heeled leather boots that were completely unsuitable for walking in a factory, she stumbled toward the workshop's main doors.
"Rest assured, Mr. Argyle. I will buy a boat ticket and leave New York tomorrow. I swear I will never appear before you again to disturb your great, stench-filled empire of copper!"
Felix stood where he was, watching Isabella's resolute departure.
The light from the steel furnace hit her, casting a long shadow.
Among this group of bare-chested, sweating steelworkers, she was like a white swan that had strayed into a pack of wolves, yet would rather die than submit.
Felix did not immediately speak to stop her; instead, he narrowed his eyes slightly.
"What a damn fine performance," Felix applauded mentally.
If Timmy hadn't already thoroughly investigated her background...
If he didn't know she was the exiled princess carrying the mission of restoring the Bourbon Dynasty...
Felix swore he would have been completely fooled by this act of retreating to advance and refusing to eat food handed out in contempt.
She portrayed the image of a rudely treated, heartbroken lady to perfection.
But it was precisely because he knew she was acting...
That the desire for conquest in Felix's heart was completely ignited.
He had to admit it.
This woman was an extremely rare specimen.
Whether in his past life's era of information explosion and beauty filters, or in this rugged nineteenth century...
Isabella was absolutely top-tier in terms of appearance, figure, and especially that classical aristocratic temperament radiating from within.
She wanted to play.
Felix didn't mind playing along with her.
After all, a puppet that only knows how to obey every day is boring.
A thorny, self-proclaimed clever Bourbon wild rose like this...
If he could strip away her disguise bit by bit and make her finally surrender willingly under his leather shoes...
Now that would be the ultimate pastime of this era.
Isabella had already reached the edge of the workshop exit.
Outside were several intersecting railroad tracks and train cars loaded with ore.
She didn't know the way at all; if she wandered aimlessly, she could be crushed by a steam locomotive on the tracks at any moment.
Felix took long strides and chased after her.
Just as Isabella was about to step out of the workshop doors...
Felix reached out with his powerful right hand and grabbed her wrist.
His grip was strong, so strong that Isabella let out a soft cry.
"Let me go!"
Isabella struggled hard, but it was like an ant trying to shake a tree.
Felix gave a sudden pull.
Isabella lost her balance and crashed directly into Felix's broad chest.
"Where do you think you're going?"
Felix lowered his head, his nose almost touching her forehead.
His voice was no longer that violent roar from before, but had turned into a low, dangerously raspy tone.
"Outside is the freight yard of the Braddock Steel Works, and there are blind spots everywhere. Believe it or not, if you walk just two hundred yards out there, you'll be crushed into mincemeat by a coal train."
Isabella looked up. Staring at the close-proximity Felix, she fought back stubbornly, her eyes still red.
"Even that would be better than staying beside a tyrant who doesn't know how to respect a lady!"
Felix stared into those eyes that were like the waters of the Mediterranean.
He suddenly reached out his left hand, and his rough thumb unceremoniously wiped away the tear stains and coal dust on her cheek.
"A lady cannot survive in America, Isabella."
Felix's tone softened slightly, as if smoothing the fur of a wounded doe.
"Every day in Washington and on Wall Street, I deal with politicians and bankers who want to swallow me whole. I've grown accustomed to using the worst malice to speculate about everyone who approaches me. That is the rule by which I've lived until now."
As he spoke, Felix released her wrist and took a half-step back.
"If I made you feel I was being crude, then I apologize. But this is my real world. Let's go; it seems this place really isn't suitable for you. The private train is waiting outside."
Felix no longer used a commanding tone, but one tinged with a slight sadness.
Isabella looked at Felix, whose attitude had softened.
It seemed she had gained the upper hand in this psychological tug-of-war, successfully making this steel tyrant feel a hint of guilt.
Gently rubbing her sore wrist, Isabella silently turned around and walked toward the private train.
Felix followed behind her, a playful smirk curling at the corner of his mouth.
The game had only just begun!