Chapter 3 - The Armor of Deception
Mave woke up staring at a ceiling that looked like it belonged in the Louvre. Intricate crown molding bordered a sweeping expanse of pristine white, completely devoid of the familiar water stains and peeling paint of her old apartment. For three blissful seconds, she thought she was dreaming. Then she felt the heavy, cold weight of the diamond ring on her left hand, and the memories of last night crashed over her like a tidal wave.
The gunshot. The hitman. Rowan Mercer’s dead, calculating eyes.
She sat up abruptly in the king-sized bed. The silk sheets, softer than anything she had ever touched, pooled around her waist. A discreet tap at the heavy mahogany door made her flinch, her heart instantly kicking into overdrive.
"Miss Sullivan?" a crisp, authoritative female voice called out. "It is 8:00 AM. Mr. Mercer has authorized us to begin."
Before Mave could respond, the door swung open. A petite woman with razor-sharp blonde hair, wearing designer stilettos and carrying a clipboard, marched into the room. Behind her trailed an army of four people lugging garment bags, makeup cases, and what looked like medieval torture devices for hair.
"I'm Genevieve," the blonde announced, barely glancing at Mave as she began directing her team with military precision. "We have exactly ten hours to turn you from—" Genevieve finally looked at Mave, her eyes scanning her sleep-tousled hair and oversized borrowed t-shirt, "—whatever this is, into the future Mrs. Rowan Mercer. It’s going to be a bloodbath. Team, let’s move."
Mave didn’t have a say in the matter. For the next eight hours, she was subjected to a relentless barrage of poking, prodding, waxing, scrubbing, and buffing. Genevieve was a tyrant with a contour brush, barking orders about "undertones" and "posture correction" while Mave sat trapped in a plush salon chair in the adjoining vanity room.
"You slouch," Genevieve noted critically, adjusting Mave’s shoulders with a firm slap to her back. "Rowan Mercer’s fiancé does not slouch. She glides. She owns the room. When you walk into the Starlight Gala tonight, you need to look like you could buy and sell everyone in that ballroom before hors d'oeuvres are served."
"I work in a bakery," Mave muttered, wincing as someone forcefully tugged at her scalp. "The most expensive thing I own is a KitchenAid mixer, and I bought it refurbished."
"Not anymore, darling," Genevieve replied dryly. "Now, you are old money. You summer in Lake Como and you don't know how much a gallon of milk costs. Internalize it."
By 6:00 PM, the storm of activity abruptly ceased. Genevieve stepped back, arms crossed, a rare smile of genuine satisfaction playing on her lips.
"Look," she commanded.
Mave stood up and turned toward the floor-to-ceiling antique mirror.
The breath completely vanished from her lungs. She stared at the reflection, unable to comprehend that the woman looking back was her. The perpetual flour dust and exhaustion were gone. Her skin was flawless, glowing with an ethereal warmth. Her usually frizzy brown hair had been tamed into sleek, glamorous Hollywood waves that cascaded over one shoulder.
But it was the dress that stole the show.
It was a custom-fitted gown in a shade of deep, mesmerizing emerald green—the kind of color that looked like liquid money. The silk draped perfectly over her curves, featuring a daringly low cowl back and a slit up the thigh that was both elegant and lethal. Combined with the diamond on her finger, she didn't just look beautiful. She looked dangerous.
"You look like a weapon," a low, gravelly voice echoed from the doorway.
Mave spun around. Rowan stood leaning against the doorframe, his hands tucked into the pockets of a bespoke black tuxedo that fit him with maddening perfection. He looked like James Bond’s evil, untouchable twin.
Genevieve and her team immediately backed away, their professional bravado evaporating in Rowan’s presence.
"Leave us," Rowan said softly. It wasn't a request. The styling team practically scrambled out the door, pulling it shut behind them.
Rowan walked slowly into the room, his dark eyes sweeping over Mave from the tips of her strappy stilettos to the crown of her head. For the first time since she met him, his gaze lingered. The terrifying, empty void in his eyes shifted, replaced by a dark, intense heat that made the hairs on the back of Mave’s neck stand up.
"The dress is... a lot," Mave whispered, suddenly hyper-aware of how much skin was exposed on her back. She crossed her arms, feeling an urge to cover herself.
Rowan stopped inches from her. He reached out, his warm, rough fingers gently catching her chin, forcing her to look up into his face.
"Don't hide," he murmured, his thumb brushing lightly against her lower lip. The touch sent a jolt of electricity straight to her core. "Tonight, you are the apex. When they look at you, I want them to see exactly why a man like me would burn the city to the ground to keep you."
Mave’s heart hammered against her ribs. She was supposed to be playing a role, but the way he was looking at her made the lines between deception and reality blur terrifyingly fast.
"What if I mess up?" she asked, her voice trembling. "What if Volkov sees right through me?"
"You won't," Rowan said, stepping back and offering her his arm. "Because you aren't going to leave my side. And if anyone looks at you with anything less than absolute respect, I will carve their eyes out. Shall we?"
May you like
Mave took a deep breath, slipped her hand through the crook of his arm, and let the monster lead her into the VIP elevator. The Starlight Gala was waiting.
===
