Chapter 4 - The Press ConferenceThe executive floor of DeLuca Holdings was a temple of minimalist glass, brushed steel, and terrifying efficiency.
When Marcus escorted me out of the private elevator, I half-expected to find myself sitting in a cold, corporate HR cubicle. Instead, the double doors at the end of the hall opened into an expansive, sunlit corner suite that looked more like a modern art gallery than a workplace. Floor-to-ceiling windows offered an unobstructed view of the Empire State Building, and a sleek mahogany desk dominated the center of the room.
On top of that desk sat three steaming cups of artisanal matcha latte and a designer pastry box from a bakery in SoHo.
“Welcome to your new cage, Lena,” a smooth, deep voice resonated from the doorway.
I turned to see Roman walking in, his tailored suit jacket draped over one arm, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He looked effortlessly lethal, yet the expression in his green eyes was entirely warm.
“My cage?” I arched an eyebrow, walking over to inspect the desk. “This office is bigger than my entire apartment in Brooklyn.”
“Which is why you aren't living in that Brooklyn fire trap anymore,” Roman remarked smoothly, stepping closer and handing me one of the lattes. “And this isn't an office for doing corporate paperwork. This is our command center.”
“Command center for what?”
Roman walked over to the glass wall, looking out over the midtown skyline before turning back to face me. “For the narrative. By tomorrow morning, every major financial publication, gossip rag, and tech blog in the country is going to be running headlines about us. If we don't control the story, the media will invent one. And trust me, their version will be much messier.”
I took a sip of the matcha, feeling the warmth spread through my chest. “So what’s the strategy?”
“A press conference,” Roman said calmly. “Tomorrow at noon, right here in the DeLuca Holdings auditorium. We invite the trades, the fashion glossies, and the financial press. We announce our engagement, we make it official, and we shut down every single rumor before it starts.”
I choked slightly on my latte, coughing into my hand. “Tomorrow? At noon? Roman, I don't even know how to act like a billionaire’s fiancée! I’m used to hiding behind spreadsheets and praying my spreadsheet macros don't crash!”
Roman closed the distance between us, stopping just inches away. His height and presence were overwhelming, yet his voice remained a soothing, anchor-like low hum.
“You don't have to act like anything, Lena,” he said softly, his hand reaching out to lightly brush a stray strand of hair behind my ear. “Just be exactly who you are. The woman who stood up to Celeste Moreau in a vintage black dress without blinking an eye. The rest of it—the cameras, the flashing lights, the society reporters—I’ll handle.”
The sheer conviction in his voice made my heart do a dangerous, traitorous flip. This was supposed to be a fake arrangement, a tactical alliance to punish a corrupt boss and deflect unwanted social pressure. But standing here, with his hand warm against my cheek, the lines between reality and pretense were blurring so fast I couldn't tell where the lie ended and the truth began.
The next morning, the ground floor of DeLuca Holdings looked like a red-carpet premiere at the Cannes Film Festival.
Flashbulbs popped in rapid succession. Microphones from Bloomberg, The Wall Street Journal, and Vogue lined the mahogany podium in the auditorium. Over two hundred journalists, photographers, and industry analysts sat in stunned silence as the side doors opened.
Roman walked out first.
He didn't look like a man forced into a public relations stunt. He looked like a king claiming his throne. And walking right beside him—dressed in a stunning, custom emerald-green silk dress that Roman’s private stylist had delivered at dawn—was me.
My heels clicked steadily against the polished stage. My hands were freezing, my palms slightly damp, but as I felt Roman’s strong hand slide securely around my waist, guiding me toward the center microphone, every trace of fear evaporated.
Roman stepped up to the podium, adjusting the mic. The chaotic snapping of camera shutters immediately quieted into a reverent hush.
“Thank you all for coming on such short notice,” Roman’s voice boomed through the auditorium speakers, calm, authoritative, and absolute. “I called this press conference not to discuss Q3 earnings or infrastructure acquisitions, but to address a matter of personal privacy that has recently become public.”
He turned his head slightly, looking down at me with a gaze so fiercely tender that every camera in the room instantly pivoted in our direction.
“Last Friday at the Plaza, my fiancée, Lena Vance—soon to be Lena DeLuca—honored me by agreeing to share her life with me,” Roman declared, his words carrying effortlessly across the hall. “For those who have spent the last seventy-two hours speculating about her background, her career, or her wardrobe, let me make one thing crystal clear: Lena is the sharpest, most brilliant strategist I have ever known. She is my equal in every sense of the word. And anyone who disrespects her disrespects DeLuca Holdings.”
A collective gasp rippled through the press corps. Flashbulbs blinded me for several seconds as journalists frantically raised their hands.
“Mr. DeLuca! Over here! When is the wedding?” shouted a reporter from the front row.
May you like
Roman smiled—a slow, brilliant, utterly genuine smile—and pulled me flush against his side, his arm wrapping securely around my back.
“Soon,” Roman answered smoothly, looking straight into the camera lenses. “Very soon.”
