Giorgio's Unexpected Chance | BxM

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CHAPTER THREE | THE GILDED COERCION

February 22

Sultan-Castellano Estate

Giorgio's P.O.V

I glided through the palatial entrance of our ancestral home, the Sultan-Castellano Estate, enveloped in the same timeless elegance I remembered from my youth. The grand foyer, with its soaring ceilings and marble floors, was accented by the subtle fragrance of exotic blooms—a new addition to the familiar tableau.

"Well, well, the infamous Casanova graces us with his presence," came the sardonic drawl, unmistakably Audrey's. "Your escapades have become the week's most titillating gossip. Three paramours? I'm astounded by your... virtues remain intact."

I turned to find Audrey descending the grand staircase, swathed in the latest couture, a walking showcase of her fiancé's unwitting largesse. Her skin radiated the golden hues of the Bahamian sun, a detail she flaunted with abandon on her social platforms.

Audrey was the quintessential heiress, her life a series of leisurely pursuits, untouched by the merest hint of toil in all her twenty-five years. Her dalliances with modeling were but a caprice, her true sustenance derived from the opulent wellspring of trust funds, paternal allowances, and the generosity of affluent suitors. Her influence, a commodity traded through the endorsements adorning her digital empire.

In stark contrast stood the matriarchs of our lineage, many of whom wielded power within our family's corporate dominions or carved their own entrepreneurial paths. Yet, amidst them were those who embraced the leisurely existence of trophy wives and homemakers, a role Audrey had perfected.

"Your jests fall short of the mark," I assured her, my steps echoing down the corridor in search of our progenitors. "Their whereabouts?"

"The library, where else?" she quipped, her laughter trailing behind us as we ventured forth.

Within the sanctum of the library, Mother reclined by the window, the picture of sophistication, her gaze lost in the glossy pages of haute couture. Father, the perennial patriarch, stood sentinel by the hearth, bourbon his silent companion.

"Giorgio, my boy, a sight for sore eyes," Mother exclaimed, her embrace a mélange of warmth and reproach. "How you've flourished!"

Her embrace was a fortress, a maternal stronghold that belied her petite stature.

"Now, let's have a proper look at you," she said, stepping back only to deliver a sharp rebuke across my cheek. "Must I endure the shame of a libertine son? Your debauchery is the scandal at the club. Not just one but three women, Giorgio, three!"

"You're hastening Mother to her grave," Audrey interjected, her voice tinged with mock concern as she savored a glass of vintage wine.

"Is that your intent?" Mother lamented, sinking back into her chair, the very embodiment of maternal distress. "To lay your devoted mother to rest in a Dior-clad coffin?"

"Such thoughts are unwelcome," I replied, my tone laced with feigned remorse.

"And yet, your actions don't match your words," she countered.

"It's the nature of my world," I said, a smile playing at the corners of my mouth.

"You tarnish the Sultan-Castellano name, not to mention the businesses," Father interjected, his gaze never straying from the flames. "We've deliberated on a suitable course of action."