?<strong>Chapter 868:</strong>


    “If you undermine Miss Herrera’s ns, don’t expect me to intervene on your behalf!”


    In reality, they stood at a sufficient distance that Carrie couldn’t possibly have heard their conversation.


    Nevertheless, Aliza couldn’t tolerate hearing anyone praise Carrie, even from these hired thugs.


    Aliza’s gaze remained fixed on the closed door, as though she possessed the ability to visualize Carrie’s presence in the hallway despite the solid barrier between them.


    The restaurant was part of arger shoppingplex rather than a standalone establishment. Its service elevator connected strategically to the hotel located on the upper floors, creating an almost purpose-built route for discreet movement between venues.


    It seemed as though fate had orchestrated this opportunity perfectly. One of Carrie’s sponsors maintained a business rtionship with Aliza’s father and had mentioned tonight’s contract signing during a recent dinner conversation.


    Crossing her arms deliberately, Aliza’s lips curled into a calcting smile that revealed the malevolence behind her seemingly cid expression.


    She savored the thought of what would be of the Morrison family’s vaunted pride once their cherished princess suffered vition at the hands of hired criminals. She wondered if the Webster family would still wee such a woman into their household after such an incident.


    The contract signing wrapped up without a hitch. The sponsors were polite, professional, and gentlemanly in their demeanor toward Carrie.


    Just as she finished saying her goodbyes, the door to their private room swung open. A waiter stepped in, pushing a small cart stocked with a bottle of red wine and several sses.


    Mr. Singh, seated beside Carrie, nced at the cart before turning to her with a warm smile.


    “Ms. Campbell, do you drink?”


    Mr. Singh was about her father’s age—plump, refined, and exuding an air of quiet authority. Unlike some men in his position, he wasn’t overbearing. If anything, he had been treating Carrie with the kind of warmth usually reserved for family. She had heard he used to do business with the Morrison family.


    Throughout dinner, he had been attentive, cing food on her te—a small but telling gesture.


    A younger businessman sitting nearby cast a quick, deferential nce at Mr. Singh before chiming in with a grin.


    “This is from Mr. Singh’s private collection. If it weren’t for you, we wouldn’t even get the chance to taste it.”


    Carrie had overheard their conversation earlier—Mr. Singh was a serious collector of wine and cigars. Several high-end wines had already been served during dinner, so whatever was being brought out now had to be something special.


    Sensing her hesitation, Mr. Singh chuckled, lifting a hand as if to reassure her.


    “No pressure at all, Ms. Campbell. I would never force a drink on someone. But this wine is rare—one of the best. Please, do me the honor of trying just a sip.”


    Her eyes flicked to the cart. The bottle was already open. Not only that—some of the wine was missing. She then noticed a wine decanter sitting beside it, partially filled.


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