"This is final; you are going home with me, Beatrix."
The Count declared as he tightly grasped the arm of his chair, but before he could do anything, Vivian knew how to stop him from bossing everyone around.
"Lord Provost, if my memory serves me right, you owe me a big favour," she said very soundly, resting her back against her chair and squaring her shoulders with a big smile on her face.
"I am sorry, what?" Count Morgan, who was already leaning forward to stand, stared at her, brows furrowed, then a smirk twisted his lips as if he had tasted something sour.
"The Finals, my Lord,"
Vivian prompted him to remember, tilting her head in hopes of jogging his memory, but he seemed taken aback and unaware of what she meant, which made her go into details:
