Chapter 3
The private styling suite inside the Romano mansion looked like a high-end Fifth Avenue boutique.
Racks of designer gowns, sparkling diamond jewelry, and rows of pristine Italian leather heels lined the walls, overseen by an elite Parisian stylist whom Ethan had apparently flown in via private jet at dawn.
For two hours, I was poked, prodded, brushed, and zipped into a world I had only ever seen in glossy fashion magazines.
When I finally stepped out of the fitting room, even I barely recognized the woman staring back in the triple-length gilded mirror.
The dress was a masterpiece of midnight-blue silk velvet that hugged every curve before cascading into a dramatic, flowing train that shimmered under the crystal chandeliers.
Diamonds sparkled around my neck and on my ears—pieces carrying historical valuations that could fund a small hospital.
My dark hair was swept up into an intricate, elegant chignon with a few soft strands framing my face.
The door clicked open, and Ethan walked into the suite. He stopped dead in his tracks. For a long, silent moment, the ruthless logistics billionaire lost his composure entirely.
His gray eyes swept over me slowly, taking in every detail, darkening with a fierce, possessive hunger that made the air in the room instantly heavy.
"Well?" I asked self-consciously, smoothing the velvet fabric over my hips. "Does the dead secretary look convincing enough?"
Ethan exhaled slowly, closing the distance between us with long, deliberate strides.
He stopped inches away, lifting his hand to gently brush a knuckle against my bare collarbone. His touch sent an electric shock straight through my skin. "
You don't look like a secretary, Hannah," Ethan murmured, his voice husky and low. "You look like a queen. A dangerous, breathtaking queen."
"Ethan, about tonight..." I started, looking up into his piercing eyes. "When we walk into that ballroom... what happens if Richard Caldwell tries to speak to us?" Ethan’s jaw tightened into a hard line of absolute steel.
"If Richard Caldwell even breathes in your direction tonight, he will spend the rest of his miserable life wishing he had never been born.
You stay by my side, hold my arm, and let me handle the monsters." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a stunning, flawless diamond ring set in platinum, sliding it slowly onto my left ring finger. It fit with absolute perfection.
"Consider this your armor," Ethan whispered, his thumb brushing over the diamond.
"No one breaks through Romano armor."
Ten minutes later, we were gliding through the New York night in the back of a bulletproof, stretch limousine, heading straight toward the blinding flashbulbs and roaring crowds of the Plaza Hotel.
My heart hammered like a trapped bird against my ribs, but as Ethan slipped his warm, strong hand over mine, my fear dissolved into a strange, intoxicating thrill. I was no longer Hannah Parker, the invisible corporate secretary running from her past.
Tonight, I was the woman who had captured the most feared man in New York.
The grand ballroom of the Plaza Hotel was a dizzying spectacle of glittering crystal chandeliers, cascading floral arrangements, and high-society elegance. Hundreds of New York’s elite—politicians, CEOs, venture capitalists, and underworld capos—mingled beneath the vaulted ceilings, sipping vintage champagne and trading hushed political gossip.
When the heavy mahogany double doors swung open, the murmurs in the room didn't just quiet down—they stopped completely.
Every eye turned toward the entrance. Ethan Romano strode into the ballroom with the effortless, lethal grace of an apex predator.
His arm was locked firmly around my waist, holding me flush against his side with an air of absolute, unyielding possession.
I kept my chin high, my shoulders back, channeling every ounce of the elegance and poise the Parisian stylist had drilled into me. Flashes from hidden cameras popped around the room, capturing the shockwaves of our arrival.
"Look at them," I heard a whispered voice murmur from a nearby table. "I thought Ethan Romano never took a woman seriously, let alone introduced one to high society."
"Who is she?" another replied. "She looks like royalty." Ethan leaned down, his lips brushing my ear as we glided past a cluster of investment bankers.
"You're dazzling them, Hannah. Keep breathing." We made our way toward the center dais where several prominent city officials and corporate sponsors were gathered.
And standing right in the front circle, holding a glass of scotch with a hand that was visibly shaking, was Richard Caldwell.
The color had drained entirely from Richard’s face. His eyes bulged in absolute, primal terror as he stared at me—the woman his syndicate had supposedly eliminated in a fiery highway explosion less than twenty-four hours ago, standing alive and well, draped in millions of dollars of diamonds on the arm of the city's most feared mafia boss.
Ethan felt the sudden tension in my body and pulled me a fraction closer, his gray eyes fixing on Richard with the cold, lethal focus of a wolf eyeing a wounded rabbit.
"Evening, Richard," Ethan’s voice cut across the quiet circle like a razor blade. Richard swallowed hard, his voice cracking as he tried to speak. "E-Ethan... I didn't realize... I thought Ms.
Parker passed away in the tragic accident yesterday..." Ethan tilted his head, a terrifying, humorless smirk touching the corner of his lips.
"Accident, Richard? Strange word for something that smells so suspiciously like a botched corporate setup.
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My fiancée had a miraculous survival. And she’s very eager to discuss the internal auditing records of Caldwell & Associates with the federal prosecutor sitting at table four." Richard looked like he was going to vomit right onto his Italian leather shoes.
He dropped his scotch glass; it shattered against the marble floor, spraying amber liquid everywhere. Without waiting for Richard to recover, Ethan smiled smoothly, kissed my temple, and whispered, "Come, my love. Let's go say hello to the district attorney."
