Chapter 5 - The Transformation
The private salon on the fifth floor of the Saks Fifth Avenue flagship store on Michigan Avenue smelled of expensive perfume, freshly steamed wool, and high-end leather.
Hannah stood on a low wooden podium in front of a three-way mirror, staring at her reflection as if looking at a stranger.
The woman in the glass wore an emerald-green silk dress that hugged her waist before falling in a clean, elegant sweep to the floor. Her dark hair, previously pinned in a hurried bun, had been styled by a celebrity stylist into soft, glossy waves that framed her face. Her skin, cleaned of fatigue and stress, glowed under the warm recessed lighting of the fitting room.
"Perfection," murmured Madame Dubois, a French stylist with sharp glasses perched on the bridge of her nose, clapping her hands softly. "Mr. Vance has exceptional taste. The color brings out the gold in her eyes."
Hannah shifted uncomfortably, feeling the heavy silk brush against her ankles. "It feels... excessive," she murmured, touching the neckline of the dress. "If I trip over this hem, I could pay off a used car."
"You won't trip," a deep, calm voice said from the doorway.
Hannah turned her head. Julian Vance stood leaning against the doorframe, wearing a dark navy suit that looked like it had been tailored onto his frame by invisible hands. He wasn't smiling, but his obsidian eyes swept over her with a slow, appraising thoroughness that made her pulse quicken.
"Well?" Julian asked, looking to the stylist. "Is the wardrobe complete?"
"The primary capsule collection is finished, Mr. Vance," Madame Dubois replied, gesturing to a row of garment bags lined up along the rack. "Evening gowns, business casual suits, cocktail dresses, and outerwear suited for Chicago winters. All charged to your corporate account."
"Thank you, Madame," Julian said, tossing a heavy platinum card across the counter before looking back at Hannah. "Get changed. Our first public appearance is tonight at the Lyric Opera winter gala. My car will be downstairs in thirty minutes."
Hannah swallowed hard, stepping down from the podium. "Tonight? Julian, I haven't even had time to process—"
"Processing is a luxury for people with downtime," Julian interrupted, turning on his heel. "Be ready."
Two hours later, the black Rolls-Royce pulled up to the grand limestone entrance of the Civic Opera House.
Paparazzi flashbulbs popped like continuous lightning storms outside the red carpeted steps, casting blinding white light against the damp night air. Reporters shouted questions over the hum of luxury sedans and idling limousines.
Inside the car, Hannah’s hands were trembling as she smoothed the emerald silk skirt of her dress.
"Relax," Julian said quietly, sitting beside her in the dim interior. "They are sharks. If you show fear, they circle. If you show boredom, they lose interest."
"Easy for you to say," Hannah whispered, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. "You’ve been doing this since you were in diapers. I was serving soup to lawyers twelve hours ago."
Julian didn't reply immediately. Instead, as the car glided to a smooth stop at the red carpet, he reached across the gap between them, taking her cold, trembling hand in his warm, steady grip.
"You are not a waitress tonight, Hannah," he said, his voice dropping into a low, hypnotic register that brooked no argument. "You are my equal. Remember that."
The door swung open.
A wall of white light hit Hannah’s eyes, accompanied by the deafening roar of shouting photographers.
Julian stepped out first, extending his hand. Hannah took a deep breath, buried every trace of Cicero, every unpaid bill, and every memory of Garrett Sloan deep inside her chest, and placed her hand in his.
As she stepped out onto the red carpet beside him, the flashbulbs exploded into a blinding frenzy. Reporters surged forward, screaming names and questions.
“Mr. Vance! Mr. Vance! Is this the new face of Vance Capital?” “Who’s the lady, Julian? Are congratulations in order?”
Julian didn't smile broadly—that wasn't his style—but he offered a cool, composed nod, pulling Hannah slightly closer to his side with an easy, proprietary intimacy that looked entirely authentic.
May you like
Hannah raised her chin, fixed her gaze on the grand glass doors of the opera house, and walked forward with a grace she didn't know she possessed.
From somewhere across the red carpet, entirely unnoticed by the flashing cameras, Garrett Sloan stood smoking a cigarette outside a nearby restaurant, staring in stunned, paralyzed disbelief as the billionaire’s new fiancée swept past him in a dress worth more than his annual salary.
