Chapter

Christophe glanced at Arthur and nodded slightly, replying, "If you have any investment inquiries, contact my assistant directly."

Arthur's eyes lit up. He loved straightforward people. Smiling, he replied, "There won't be any at all. We always plan for unforeseen circumstances. Ms. York is welcome to join any future shows once she has recovered!"

Christophe stood, handing Sheldon's business card to Arthur before turning to help Cynthia. Seeing her about to stumble, he scooped her up. She shyly nestled into his chest, wrapping her arms around his neck.

Sneaky reporters, waiting for a scoop, captured the scene. Cynthia buried her face in Christophe's chest, her fear evident. He barked coldly at them, "Delete those photos now, or don't blame me if your companies shut down."

Security arrived, and Christophe carried Cynthia to the car without further interruption. In the front passenger seat, Cynthia looked worried. "Christopher, what if they've already uploaded the photos? It could damage your reputation."

Touched by her concern for him, he gently patted her head, smiling. "Cynthia, you're always so considerate. Melody couldn't compare." He added, withdrawing his hand, "I'll handle it. Don't worry."

"I'm so sorry for causing you all this trouble," Cynthia said, biting her lip apologetically.

"Don't be. Melody already hurt your ankle. Rest for the next few days and skip the rest of the show," he replied as he drove.

She nodded and took out her phone. "I'll inform them and request some time off. I forgot to earlier." However, she opened the local news feed instead. Several entertainment outlets had already posted stories about her incident. Tilting her phone to avoid Christophe's sight, she discreetly instructed her assistant, Fiona Pena, to boost the articles' visibility. Then, she sent a message before closing her phone.

"Thank you, Christopher. Otherwise, I would've been scolded to death by Arthur for today's mishap," Cynthia said, steering the conversation to lighter topics.

"It's nothing. Your well-being is what matters," he replied.

The corners of her lips curled slightly. His swift reaction on the runway showed he still cared. She needed to eliminate Melody—her biggest obstacle—immediately. About twenty minutes later, Christophe pulled up at Cynthia's hotel.

As he stepped out to help her, several paparazzi darted out from behind a large tree. Flashlights flickered incessantly. "Get out of here! Stop taking pictures!" he roared in anger. These shameless paparazzi had tracked them. "Cynthia, stay in the car. I'll get us out of here," he added, quickly returning to the driver's seat.

He sped away. Cynthia clutched her arms, her voice trembling. "How did they know I was staying here? Even the hotel is surrounded now."

"You're a model with a fair amount of fame. Those bastards sniffed it out, of course," Christophe said grimly.

"Could you take me to a nearby café or somewhere else for a while? I'll wait until they leave before heading back," she pleaded, biting her lip. "I'm sorry to trouble you further. It's awfully inconvenient."

"You don't need to be overly polite with me," he replied. "But those paparazzi won't leave anytime soon. Your location is already compromised."

"What should I do, then? All my documents are in my bag—I can't even check into another hotel," she murmured helplessly.