Chapter 2 - Pearls and Poison
Two days later, the transformation was underway in a sterile, high-end hotel suite downtown that Margaret Ashford had rented under an alias. A team of stylists, makeup artists, and wardrobe consultants moved around Maeve like worker bees servicing a queen bee—except Maeve felt more like a sacrificial lamb being dressed for the altar.
They dyed her mousy brown hair a richer, deeper chestnut, styled it in sleek, aristocratic waves that tumbled over her shoulders. They stripped away her natural, unassuming look with heavy, contouring makeup designed to mimic Sienna’s sharp cheekbones and patrician nose. They laced her into a cream-colored silk dress that cost more than her annual salary, and finally, Margaret stepped forward, holding a string of glowing South Sea pearls.
These were the exact pearls Sienna had worn during her first public dinner with Elias Marchetti.
"Lift your chin," Margaret commanded coldly, draping the cool, heavy beads around Maeve’s neck. "And stop slouching. When you walk into that estate, you are not a girl from the South Side working for minimum wage. You are an Ashford. You are the woman who chose to stand by a wounded king. If you show a single ounce of fear, Elias will smell it like a shark smells blood in the water."
"He's going to see right through me," Maeve murmured, staring at her reflection in the full-length mirror. The woman looking back at her didn't look like Maeve Donnelly. She looked like a ghost wearing borrowed skin.
"Elias is half-blinded by his own grief and anger right now," Margaret replied, adjusting the collar of the dress with clinical detachment. "Men like him believe that everyone around them is motivated by power, greed, or fear. Show him loyalty, and his ego will do the rest of the work. He wants to believe someone loves him for him, not his empire. Play into that weakness."
An hour later, a matte-black bulletproof Lincoln Navigator pulled up to the hotel service entrance. Gabriel Ferraro, Elias Marchetti’s legendary chief of security—a man with eyes like chipped slate and a scar running from his jawline down into his collar—was waiting by the rear door.
Gabriel didn’t smile when Maeve stepped out into the misty Chicago evening. He opened the car door with mechanical precision, his gaze sweeping the perimeter before locking onto Maeve’s face for a fraction of a second too long.
"Miss Ashford," Gabriel greeted him, his voice gravelly and flat. "Mr. Marchetti has been expecting you. Or rather, he’s been expecting someone to finally brave the gates."
Maeve’s heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird as she slid into the leather-lined interior of the car. The doors clicked shut with a heavy, vacuum-sealed thud, locking automatically. As the vehicle pulled out into traffic, heading north toward the sprawling, fortress-like estate on the edge of Lake Michigan, Maeve realized she had just crossed a point of no return.
The car ride was excruciatingly silent. Gabriel sat in the front passenger seat, occasionally glancing back through the rearview mirror. Maeve kept her hands folded tightly in her lap, digging her fingernails into her palms to keep her hands from shaking. Every traffic light, every turn of the steering wheel felt like a countdown to an execution.
When the massive wrought-iron gates of the Marchetti estate swung open, revealing a long, winding driveway flanked by towering oaks and armed security checkpoints, Maeve felt the air leave her lungs. The estate wasn't just a house; it was a limestone fortress designed to keep the world—and anyone trying to escape it—completely locked away.
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The Navigator came to a smooth halt in front of the grand double doors of the main entrance. Gabriel stepped out, hurried around the car, and pulled her door open.
"Welcome to the lions' den, Miss Ashford," Gabriel said quietly, his eyes warning her of things left unsaid. "Try not to trip on your way in. The master of the house hates clumsy people."
