Chapter 3 - The ReconstructionBy 9:00 AM the following morning, the digital landscape of Chicago had exploded into an unadulterated frenzy.
The video of the kiss at L’Étoile had accumulated over fourteen million views across social media platforms before Vincent’s cyber-security team selectively halted its redistribution. Gossip columns, business journals, and social registries were demanding to know the identity of the dark-haired waitress who had brought the ruthless Don of Chicago to his knees.
Inside the master dressing suite of the penthouse, three elite stylists from Fifth Avenue worked in hushed, reverent efficiency around me.
I stood before a ten-foot gilded mirror wearing a custom, floor-length emerald silk evening gown. The dress was designed with regal, flowing lines that celebrated every curve of my frame—hugging my hips with liquid elegance, framing my collarbone with delicate platinum lace, and letting my dark hair fall in glossy, luxurious waves over my shoulders.
An eight-carat flawless emerald necklace, surrounded by diamonds, rested against my skin—a piece from the private DeLuca family vault.
I stared at the woman in the mirror.
The exhausted girl in the scuffed black shoes and polyester apron was gone. Looking back at me was a woman who looked like a queen—radiant, powerful, and utterly breathtaking.
The heavy mahogany doors opened, and Vincent stepped into the dressing suite wearing an immaculate black tuxedo.
He stopped dead in his tracks.
For three seconds, the most controlled man in Chicago forgot how to breathe. His storm-gray eyes swept over my figure, taking in the emerald silk, the diamonds, and the quiet, rising fire in my hazel eyes.
He walked up behind me, his broad hands coming around my waist, resting gently against my stomach, pulling my back flush against his solid chest. He buried his face into the crook of my neck, letting out a long, shuddering exhale.
"You take my breath away, Emily," Vincent whispered, his lips pressing a sweet, lingering kiss against my skin.
"Vincent," I murmured, turning in his arms to rest my hands flat against his broad lapels, looking up into his carved face. "Tyler and Vanessa are attending the Chicago Commercial Trust Gala at the Drake Hotel tonight, aren't they?"
"Yes," Vincent smiled—a rare, dangerous, breathtaking look that lit up his severe features. "Tyler used his entire company’s quarterly reserve to buy a table, hoping to announce his engagement to Vanessa Caldwell and secure a ten-million-dollar investment from the city board."
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I reached up, my fingers gently tracing his sharp jawline, my hazel eyes holding his with a cold, absolute resolve that matched his own.
"Then let's go show him what an ordinary woman looks like," I said.
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