You got your marriage certificate and then abandoned me? I'll feed the richest woman in the wor

The blood-stained multi-billion dollar contract traced an arc in mid-air.

Wang Kai, wearing that floral beach shirt, lunged forward in a flustered manner.

The heavy document landed heavily in his chubby palm.

It made a muffled "snap" sound.

The fat on his face twitched uncontrollably, and even the three layers of fat on his chin trembled.

That's 10 billion euros!

Control over the entire European fresh food retail channel was handed over to them as easily as throwing away a piece of waste paper.

Chen Yuan did not turn around.

He couldn't be bothered to even glance at the acquisition deal that could revolutionize the European retail industry.

Holding the warm cup of Ceylon tea in one hand, he steadily brought it to Shen Wanzhou's lips.

"It's hot, drink it slowly."

The deep voice was carried away by the Aegean Sea breeze, leaving only an lingering warmth.

Shen Wanzhou obediently took a sip from the rim of the cup.

Her sparkling peach blossom eyes curved into two crescent moons.

Her cheeks were flushed with satisfaction, and her fair fingers gently hooked the hem of Chen Yuan's shirt.

It's as if what we just secured wasn't Europe's largest commercial channel.

Instead, she bought the last piece of strawberry cake from the supermarket downstairs.

three days later.

The Champs-Élysées in Paris, France.

Inside a VIP box of a high-end club with a two-hundred-year history.

The air was filled with the smoke of Gallic cigars.

It has a tangy, astringent flavor reminiscent of aged Bordeaux red wine.

Around the round table sat a dozen or so top European food critics, their hair white and dressed in suits.

Three days ago, they were typing away on various social media platforms.

He wrote a lengthy treatise, belittling Chen Yuan and Chinese cuisine to the point of being worthless.

"Prince Salman"

Pierre, the chief critic, pushed up his gold-rimmed glasses.

Looking at the transparent, temperature-controlled glass dome in the center of the table.

"What you paid a high price for is this pile of... kitchen scraps?"

Inside the glass dome.

Half a fish tail lay there, along with a small dish of fish bones dipped in sweet and sour sauce.

Pierre's Adam's apple bobbed, his tone revealing undisguised contempt.

"Let the noble French palate savor this leftover."

"This is an insult to our profession."

Prince Salman was wearing a traditional white robe.

With his arms crossed in front of his chest, the Richard Miller pendant on his wrist, studded with tiny diamonds, gleamed coldly.

"Take a bite."

His voice was rough, with the domineering air typical of Middle Eastern tycoons.

"If you don't eat there, those restaurants under your listed shares will no longer receive any Middle Eastern oil funding tomorrow."

Naked capitalist coercion.

Pierre clenched his teeth, his face turning ashen.

The wrinkles on his forehead were knitted together, revealing a deep sense of humiliation.

He picked up a sterling silver fork.

I picked up a tiny bit of fish scraps covered in amber sauce with disgust.

As if heading to the execution ground, it was put into the mouth.

The moment the teeth close.

Pierre's mocking expression shattered as if struck by a heavy hammer.

The sweet and sour molecules explode on the tip of your tongue.

That pinnacle of mastering the ratio of sugar to vinegar down to the molecular level.

It's infused with the ultimate sweetness of the fish itself.

The smell was like a raging tsunami.

It directly overturned his proud taste bud defense system.

It lacks the heaviness of butter and the overpowering presence of truffles.

Only with the purest control over the heat and the original flavor of the ingredients.

Clang.

The sterling silver fork slipped from between his trembling fingers.

It struck the bone china plate with a crisp, clear sound.

Pierre's gray-blue eyes bulged out and were covered with terrifying red blood vessels.

He abruptly pushed aside the heavy, carved wooden chair.

He collapsed onto the table, abandoning even his knife and fork.

He picked up a fish bone covered in sauce with his hands, which were always covered in white gloves.

They held it tightly in their mouths and frantically sucked on the sweet and sour sauce.

"My God... how is this possible..."

Pierre mumbled incoherently as he sucked.

Large, murky tears fell onto the snow-white tablecloth.

Dark water stains spread out in concentric circles.

"This is a true gift from God! All the molecular gastronomy I've eaten for the past thirty years has been nothing but industrial waste!"

The remaining dozen or so critics.

Seeing the usually arrogant Pierre in such a frenzied state...

They no longer cared about the dignity of being a nobleman.

They were like a pack of wild dogs that hadn't eaten for ten days.

They swarmed toward the glass dome.

"Don't take it! That's mine!"

"Leave the plate for me! I want to lick the sauce clean!"

A group of elderly European nobles in their sixties and seventies.

They fought tooth and nail in the private room over a half-eaten piece of fish tail, resulting in bloodshed.

The expensive suit was torn, and the tie was askew.

Dignity shattered into dust under the extreme impact of taste.

The next morning.

The headlines of Western media have completely changed.

Le Figaro, the homepage of the Michelin Guide.

The entire article was dominated by the same long post.

Pierre wrote a 30,000-word hymn in an almost fanatical, pilgrimage-like tone.

"The dragon of the East is not only invincible in finance, but it has also crushed our century-old arrogance when it comes to taste."

"Every inch of farms under Star Venture Capital produces ingredients kissed by God."

This article became a hot topic.

It has completely burned away the last fig leaf of Europe's high-end catering industry.

Diners, newspapers in hand, flocked to the retail supermarkets and upscale restaurants recently acquired by Star Ventures.

Vegetables and fresh produce on the shelves.

It was completely sold out within three minutes of the door opening.

Jianghai City, Xingchen Building, third basement level.

Geek Core Lab.

The liquid-cooled server emitted a low hum, and a cool breeze wafted through the air.

Xiao Liu, dressed in a blue and white school uniform, sat cross-legged on a gaming chair.

On the six curved screens in front of me.

The red lines representing Europe's major catering giants and agricultural supply chains are breaking in large sections.

The green light pillar represents Star Ventures.

It swept across the entire European continent with overwhelming force.

Europe's largest cold chain logistics group has filed for bankruptcy protection and is seeking acquisition by Star Ventures.

"Three major French wine estates voluntarily gave up 80% of their shares in order to retain their supplier status."

Xiao Liu's fingers tapped on the mechanical keyboard, the sound trembling.

There is no need for lengthy business negotiations.

No need for massive financial pressure.

Those once-impregnable century-old supply chains.

It crumbled under the collective defection of top food critics.

They obediently offered their necks to Star Venture Capital's guillotine.

Chen Yuan was wearing a white cotton loungewear set.

Stand behind the big screen.

His sleeves were rolled up to his forearms, and he held the small silver knife he used to cut fruit platters in his hand.

His gaze didn't linger on the screen for long.

He turned around.

He fed the sliced ​​Shine Muscat grapes to Shen Wanzhou, who was sitting on a cushion.

Open your mouth.

The man's voice was deep and gentle, revealing an unyielding affection.

Shen Wanzhou obediently bit into the grape.

The sweet juice spread throughout my mouth.

Her cheeks puffed out slightly, and her watery peach blossom eyes curved into crescent moons.

Two fair hands were tightly intertwined, the coolness of grapes still lingering on their fingertips.

Looking at the man's sharply defined, cold profile.

The blush on her ears spread all the way down her long, slender neck.

Looking at the market share curve that's skyrocketing in the background.

Xiao Liu's Adam's apple bobbed laboriously as he said, "Brother Yuan isn't cooking, he's clearly using a spatula to brainwash the European capitalist world!"