The Establishment of Trust

They wandered into the LOUIS VUITTON boutique, and it wasn't long before the sales assistant gave him a once-over, her disdain barely concealed behind a polite smile.

"Sir, if you're not planning to buy anything, please refrain from touching the merchandise," she said, her tone dripping with condescension.

Fanmuir frowned but decided it wasn't worth arguing over. Just as he turned to leave, Helena entered the boutique, her face set in a frosty scowl.

With a haughty "hmph," she glanced around the store and said curtly, "Bring your finest, newest suits for him to try."

The change in the sales assistants' attitudes was instantaneous. Gone was their disdain, replaced by smiles so eager they bordered on sycophantic.

It was hard to believe—a stunning woman like Helena, dressed to the nines in designer brands, was apparently with someone as unassuming as Fanmuir.

Although Helena couldn't help but cringe at Fanmuir's usual lack of style, he was still her guest. No one else had the right to judge him, especially not when he was acting as her stand-in boyfriend.

"Of course, ma'am. Right away!" the sales assistant said, her tone now dripping with deference.

Fanmuir could sense Helena was defending him, and for the first time, his opinion of her softened. The indifference in his gaze gave way to a hint of warmth.

Though Fanmuir's outward appearance was deliberately plain—his way of blending in—his natural charisma shone through the moment he donned the tailored LOUIS VUITTON suit. The refined cut and luxurious fabric accentuated his graceful and commanding presence.

Helena's eyes brightened as she saw him in the sleek black suit. Walking around him to get a better look, she thought to herself, "Well, well, who knew this awkward country boy could actually pull off this kind of elegance? At least he won't embarrass me tonight."

Fanmuir, feeling more comfortable in the suit, let a bit of his true confidence show, standing tall and exuding an aura of quiet sophistication.

Helena nodded approvingly but kept her tone icy. "This one will do. Get him a pair of matching leather shoes as well," she instructed.

Even someone as experienced as Fanmuir couldn't help but appreciate the fine craftsmanship of the suit. As he glanced at the price tag, though, he was stunned. "Eight thousand euros for a suit?" he whispered to Helena.

Helena rolled her eyes. "It's on me. You're not spending a cent. Don't be such a cheapskate!" she hissed back.

Swallowing his pride, Fanmuir nodded reluctantly. "Alright," he muttered, resigned to follow her lead for the night.

Helena wasn't done yet. She led Fanmuir to buy a few more extravagant accessories—a €220,000 diamond-encrusted phone and a €350,000 diamond watch. As Fanmuir watched her swipe her card effortlessly, he couldn't help but grumble to himself at the sheer extravagance of it all.

With all the essentials finally purchased, Helena decided it was time to give Fanmuir a crash course in proper etiquette. So far, she had to admit—despite her initial irritation at his seemingly money-hungry attitude—she was impressed by how well he carried himself. His poise in the tailored suit had exceeded her expectations.

They found a quiet park where Helena began her impromptu etiquette lesson.

"When you greet someone, you must always smile."

"Shake hands firmly with men!"

"When greeting a woman, lightly hold the tips of her fingers!"

"And so on…"

What Helena didn't know was that Fanmuir had already mastered the art of European noble etiquette long before he started working at the bar. But since Helena was so enthusiastic about teaching him, he didn't have the heart to interrupt. Besides, he was starting to enjoy her company. Her slightly arrogant tone no longer bothered him; instead, he found himself focusing on the soft, melodic quality of her voice.

Helena, on the other hand, was utterly floored. Every move and gesture Fanmuir made was spot-on, filled with an effortless grace and elegance that even the most polished young heirs couldn't hope to replicate. He carried himself as if nobility was in his blood.

Seeing the amazement in her eyes, Fanmuir couldn't help but smirk internally. "Impressed, aren't you? You've only scratched the surface of what I can do."

"Do you know how to dance?" Helena asked, satisfied with his etiquette.

"No," Fanmuir replied. Though he had technically studied the steps before, he saw no harm in letting her teach him.

"I knew it! Fine, I'll lower my standards and teach you!" Helena declared, her tone a mix of mock annoyance and growing fondness. By now, her initial condescension had melted away, replaced by genuine admiration for this peculiar young man from Italy.

But when Fanmuir's hand rested on her waist, both of them froze for a moment. For Fanmuir, it was his first time holding a woman this close—and not just any woman, but someone as breathtakingly beautiful as Helena. His hand trembled slightly before he steadied himself, gently placing it on her soft, slender waist.

Helena, meanwhile, had always thought of Fanmuir as a clueless country boy. Yet as her hand rested on his firm shoulder, she couldn't help but feel her heart flutter. She realized, much to her dismay, that she had been entirely wrong about him.

There was something undeniably magnetic about Fanmuir. His clean, masculine scent and quiet confidence made her girlish heart race. A soft blush crept onto her cheeks, her heartbeat quickening as the moment stretched on.

Fanmuir, for his part, couldn't ignore the smooth, delicate feel of her waist beneath his hand. He noticed the slight flush on her face and felt a strange warmth settle in his chest.

As Fanmuir and Helena danced, caught up in a whirlwind of emotions, a group of about a dozen thugs with wild hairstyles and rough appearances approached them.

It didn't take long for the group to notice the pair's intimate dancing. "Well, well, cuddling in broad daylight, are we? Why not invite us to join the fun?" a scrawny man with shoulder-length hair leered, flashing a sly grin at a burly, bald companion.

Hearing the approaching footsteps and mocking remarks, Fanmuir and Helena instinctively pulled apart. Fanmuir stepped forward, shielding Helena protectively behind him with a firm arm.

Helena, though perfectly capable of taking on ten or more thugs by herself, felt a strange sense of comfort in Fanmuir's protective stance. For some reason, she didn't resist and instead stood quietly behind him. A rare feeling of safety washed over her, one she had never experienced before.

Fanmuir, on the other hand, felt his simmering anger rise. The exhilarating moment of dancing had been shattered by these brash troublemakers, and their crude remarks about Helena made his blood boil.

Though he knew Helena didn't need his help to deal with them, Fanmuir's pride wouldn't allow anyone to step in on his behalf.

"Think you're tough, huh?" the bald thug sneered, sizing up Fanmuir.

The bright afternoon sun seemed to dim under the thugs' oppressive arrogance. Helena began to step forward, intent on putting them in their place, but Fanmuir's strong arm stopped her. "You don't need to get involved," he said firmly.

There was something about his calm confidence that made Helena hesitate. She found herself standing still, wondering just how much she didn't know about this man. Could he really fight?

Fanmuir's cold gaze swept over the gang, making even the most hardened among them uneasy. They instinctively took a step back under his icy stare.

"I'll give you three seconds to leave," Fanmuir said, his tone as sharp as a blade. "If you're still here after that, you'll regret it."

The bald leader, humiliated by his own momentary hesitation, snarled, "Trying to play the hero, are you? Get him!"

The thugs charged with their weapons raised, but what happened next defied explanation. Fanmuir didn't move an inch, yet the attackers seemed to lose all control, flailing as if caught in invisible strings.

Helena stood frozen, her eyes wide with shock. Who exactly was this man?

With a simple push of his hands and a commanding shout of "Leave!" Fanmuir sent the thugs flying backward like ragdolls. They hit the ground hard, scrambled to their feet, and fled in sheer terror, their courage completely shattered.

As the dust settled, Helena finally broke her silence. "Are you… a magician?" she asked in awe.

Fanmuir smiled faintly. "No, it's not magic. Just martial arts. I've learned a little here and there."

"Martial arts? Who taught you?" Helena asked, her curiosity piqued.

"An old man in the Italian Alps." Fanmuir replied.

"Wait—you must know Uncle Andrea!" she exclaimed, her guard dropping completely. At this moment, all her doubts about Fanmuir melted away.

"Andrea? Yeah, I've met him a few times," Fanmuir said casually, as if it were no big deal.

"What? Someone your age dares to address Andrea by his name?" Helena exclaimed, her wide, sparkling eyes filled with disbelief, as though she'd just uncovered some cosmic anomaly.

Her astonishment was understandable. Andrea was the third son of Caesar Alessandro, a God-level martial arts master of legendary stature. In addition to his prestigious lineage, Andrea himself possessed unmatched martial arts skills that bordered on the extraordinary.

"Is it really that surprising? The old man who taught me martial arts has a status far above his," Fanmuir said with a cryptic smile, his tone calm yet deliberately vague.

Helena, now completely at ease around Fanmuir, let out a delightful peal of laughter, her body trembling with mirth. To her, the idea that someone in the Alps could hold a rank higher than Andrea's father, Caesar Alessandro, was laughable to the extreme.

"Come on, keep dreaming! Do you think just any old man could claim to be Uncle Andrea's elder? You've got some nerve! I should tell Uncle Andrea about this next time—let's see what he has to say!" She punctuated her teasing with a playful glare.

"Believe what you want!" Fanmuir replied nonchalantly, making no effort to elaborate. What could he say? That he was the head of the Hexweir family and that the Alessandro clan had been his loyal vassals for over a millennium? She'd probably think he was crazy and have him committed to a psychiatric hospital!

Though Helena had a bit of a spoiled, aristocratic streak, her heart was fundamentally good and untainted. Given Fanmuir's incredible display of martial arts prowess, she naturally grouped him among her peers—someone worthy of mutual respect.

Similarly, after spending more time with Helena, Fanmuir realized that beneath her high-and-mighty exterior lay a kind and genuine soul. His initial caution and guardedness gradually faded, leaving behind an easy camaraderie.