Chapter 17 The honeymoon

midnight party came to an end, just like a lady in a formal dress retracting her graceful skirt.

Atobe Keigo stood on the steps of his house, watching the distinguished guests who came to the banquet leave. He stood in the middle of the night with his hands behind his back, looking up, and the chilly wind engraved clear marks on his face.

"It's a beautiful night, Keigo?" Atobe Yuichi walked behind him, slowing down his pace intentionally or unintentionally. Although he was over fifty years old, he was in good spirits. The traces of his handsomeness in his youth could still be seen on his face, but because he had been struggling in the treacherous business world for too long, his narrow eyes were covered with a layer of gray and unpredictable color, making him look sinister and gloomy.

"Heh." Atobe Keigo came back to his senses, and a wicked arc appeared at the corner of his mouth.

No more answers were given.

Atobe Yuichi just smiled slightly, patted his shoulder with the generosity of an elder, and walked towards his car.

"The old fox seems to be restless." Yuushi Oshiro walked over leisurely, with a few unrestrained and casual smiles on his lips, "Atobe, your move really caught people off guard."

"The game hasn't started yet." Atobe looked at him and put his hands on his chest, "I heard that the Batista team had trouble reorganizing?" Oshiro

pulled the corner of his lips indifferently: "It's all thanks to your eldest master. Some people have nowhere to vent their resentment, right?"

He raised his hand to stroke the broken hair on his forehead. Looking from a distance, the Hasegawa family's Spyker was gradually sinking into the dark blue night.

"What a joke, if the opponent is just a group of scoundrels who can only fight for will, it would be too insulting to your name as a genius."

The genius of Hyotei spread his hands, revealing a look of "Ah, I've been seen through."

"Next week, I'm going on a honeymoon."

"Huh?" Oshiro promptly held up the plain glasses that had slid slightly down from his nose, and one or two cold white lights lingered.

Atobe Keigo, without explanation, just snorted coldly and left a message, and walked into the hall with his hands behind his back: "Your woman has been waiting for you over there for a long time, Oshitsuki."

Kansai Wolf smiled bitterly and raised his head. Asano Rima was standing next to her own Lexus, wrapped in a shawl, boredly clasping her fingers in front of her belly and gently rubbing them.

He couldn't help but smile, walked over gracefully, and took her hand.

It was a beautiful midnight night, with stars gathering, fireworks blooming in the sky, and then solidifying into a thick dusk.

Atobe Keigo opened the door of his room in his pajamas. The tired and pale woman curled up in the corner of the quilt and slept lightly. There was no light on, and the bright starlight came in from the gap in the curtains, flowing across her light sleeping face like water. Her dream was not solid. He turned on the floor lamp at the head of the bed, reached close to the corner of her eyes, and clearly saw her eyelashes trembling in fear.

So he curled his lips for no apparent reason, lifted the quilt and lay down, turned off the lights, closed his eyes, and a teardrop mole glowed in the dark night. Her

delicate and even breathing gradually sounded.

She opened her eyes with her back to him, then slowly closed them again, buried her cheek in the soft pillow, and a long and lonely sigh came out from the deep part of her throat that was not exposed to the sun, rising into the sky like smoke and gradually dissipating.

A week later, the new president of the Atobe Zaibatsu flew to the European continent with his wife for his honeymoon. The entertainment edition of the Yomiuri Shimbun that day published a large color photo of the couple at the airport, holding hands with each other, and even wearing sunglasses, their brilliance did not diminish in the slightest.

Keigo Atobe kept a low profile on this trip, but he did not deliberately block the media. He would stop at his own business for a day or two in every prosperous corner of the European continent, and meeting the senior executives of local subsidiaries became a necessary schedule for every place he went.

"It is your honor to follow me, huh?"

Even if such arrogant words came from the mouth of the young president, the older financial elites had to ignore the sense of disobedience of the domineering attitude, and were impressed by the young man's sharp eyes, arrogant and evil smile, and noble and elegant manners. While on the

honeymoon trip, he did not forget to win the hearts of the major branches. Even if it was a sneer, Terajima Yuki had to admire his scheming and scheming.

Well, now people call her more often-"Mrs. Atobe".

I don't know how many ladies dreamed of this title.

Before leaving, she was stunned when she saw the name "Atobe Yuki" on her passport. Her heart trembled blankly as if she had lost a long-forgotten precious item. She thought about it carefully, but she could no longer remember it. So she hastily uncovered it and buried it in a deserted corner. Then she accompanied the gorgeous man with purple-gray hair to various occasions, Athens, Berlin, Paris, Armani professional suits, Versace evening gowns, head limited edition tennis skirts, like elegant and graceful late lotus standing in the middle of the water.

She couldn't say she didn't like the surname "Atobe", nor did she like it. Maybe she just felt temporarily uncomfortable with the fact that she was labeled with the letter A of "Atobe". In fact, if you look closely, she herself didn't seem to be too obsessed with the surname "Terashima". The man who gave her this surname faded out of her memory many years ago, and it was difficult for her to have too strong a self-identity, let alone pride and longing. The reason why she kept it was because she had to choose at least one as her own symbol, and compared to that, she disliked Hasegawa, a surname full of unpleasant memories.

Whether it was Terajima, Hasegawa, or even the current Atobe, none of them belonged to her.

She was struck by this sudden thought, looking at the vast red clay court of Roland Garros, and she felt a sense of emptiness.

"Why are you daydreaming there without being gorgeous, huh?" A gorgeous voice rose lazily in her ears. Atobe Keigo leaned on the railing of the stands, his hands in the side seam pockets of his suit, his sharp and slender phoenix eyes slanted, behind him was the blue sky and the vast red soil, and the boundaries between them blended in the distant other side.

"Nothing." She lazily withdrew her gaze, moved her lips, and uttered a few unclear syllables, with a calm expression.

Atobe Keigo curled his lips, chuckled, walked over, and put his arm around her waist: "Let's go, back."

In the romantic city of Paris, the Champs-Elysees stretches across the center of the city, full of fashion. The towering Arc de Triomphe vaguely leaves traces of the passion of the years, and the Eiffel Tower pierces the high blue sky like a sword. Atobe Keigo insisted on walking on this red soil, even though the annual French Open would take another two or three months.

Walking down the curved walkway, the sound of hitting the ball could be heard faintly from the small court open to the public on the side.

"Although there are still more than two months before the competition, some players have already started warming up here." The assistant who accompanied him from the branch explained.

"Slow clay courts have always been a difficult peak to conquer. Even if some people have conquered it, they often overdraw their bodies because of running at their best." As if he thought of something, Atobe Keigo raised his head and glanced at the agile figures running back and forth on the clay court, "But it is precisely because of this that the people who dominate this court every year will be more easily remembered, huh?"

The last syllable was raised as expected, the elegant lip line pulled out an arrogant arc, the chin was raised at an exquisite angle, and the afterglow of the setting sun flowed along the clear lines.

Youji paused for a moment, stopped walking, and intuitively felt that there was something indescribable about this man slipping away through her fingers. She was eager to reach out to catch it, but it was gone.

So she had to follow him, all the way out of the stadium. The tall and stiff Huadi Chonghong stood at the door and opened the car door behind him. The shiny surface of the black Porsche reflected the gloomy sky.

The next stop was Rome.

The black luxury car carved a gorgeous track on the airport highway. The evening wind became cold and hollow. The driver rolled down the brown window and turned on the top light. The narrow and exquisite enclosed space was immediately filled with a warm and desolate halo.

Terashima Youji closed her eyes slightly and raised her hand to cover the dim beam of light.

"You seem to be distracted again. You feel uncomfortable staying next to me, huh?" Keigo Atobe said this out of the blue. He was sitting by the window in the back seat, his arms resting on the window. The brown bulletproof glass reflected his handsome features, and a teardrop mole shone brightly in the night.

She opened her eyes helplessly: "Is my performance so bad?"

He slightly raised his lips, but the smile did not reach his eyes.

"I accompanied you to Roland Garros to reminisce about the past, and I thought I should remain silent." She said it quietly, without any concern, with a calm expression.

Keigo Atobe's smile froze at the corner of his mouth, and he turned around to look at the beautiful woman leaning on the soft seat.

The latter just smiled faintly and lowered her slender eyelids.

Today, the world of tennis is still dominated by Westerners. The young and frivolous junior mentioned by Tezuka is now carrying a tennis bag and running around major tournaments. He is just beginning to show his talent.

And those who created classics together, whether it is Kunimitsu Tezuka or Keigo Atobe, have never set foot on the journey of professional tennis.

The vast red clay of Roland Garros will not be their stage for performance after all.

"Whether it is Tezuka or Atobe, neither will appear on the red clay of Roland Garros. Is it a blessing or a curse for the world of tennis?"

A bleak look appeared on the woman's face. She was sure of the guess that flashed through her mind, and she was surprised.

It is incredible that the arrogant and arrogant young president of the Atobe chaebol sits on the classical and magnificent red clay court of Roland Garros to reminisce about his lost youthful dreams.

The cold knuckles sealed her lips, and her waist was suddenly tightened.

But seeing him approaching, with the corners of his lips raised high, he lowered his eyelids to look at him, the elegant figure of the woman in his arms was reflected in his dark grey eyes: "Enough is enough, ah?"

His index finger pressed on the tip of her lips, and the coolness slowly seeped in, but she dodged it lightly, with an indifferent expression that was not surprised by praise or criticism, and she did not even struggle, but just leaned in his arms and closed her eyes quietly.

Atobe Keigo raised his eyebrows calmly, his slender fingertips were covered with her royal lip gloss, and he rubbed it carefully, spreading it evenly and delicately, and faintly disappeared in the spiral fingerprints.

The delicate but not strong smell unexpectedly penetrated into the skin.

He looked up at the vast night outside the window, and could vaguely see the tall buildings of the airport in staggered layers, and the huge wings cast a dove-gray reflection in the sky.