Chapter 1 - The Shocking ClaimThe ballroom at the Plaza fell into a silence so absolute that you could hear the soft fizzing of champagne bubbles in crystal flutes.
Victor Laurent’s face drained of color, his jaw slacking as if he had just witnessed a physical impossibility. Beside him, Celeste Moreau’s manicured hand froze mid-air, her smartphone almost slipping through her trembling fingers. The smug, condescending smiles that had painted their faces seconds ago evaporated into pure, unadulterated panic.
"Y-your... wife?" Victor stammered, his voice dropping an octave as his eyes darted frantically between Roman DeLuca and me. "Mr. DeLuca... I—I had no idea. Lena never mentioned..."
"Because my personal life is not a spectacle for corporate vultures," Roman said smoothly. His voice was like velvet dipped in ice—calm, deep, and utterly lethal. His fingers remained warm and steady around mine, anchoring me to the spot even as my mind reeled in absolute shock.
Wife?
I stared at the side of Roman’s sharp profile. The high cheekbones, the defined jawline, the piercing dark eyes that now held the power to destroy careers with a single glance. I didn't know this man. I had seen him on the covers of Forbes and The Wall Street Journal, but we had never spoken a single word. My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird. If I denied it right now, I would humiliate him—and a man like Roman DeLuca did not tolerate humiliation. But if I played along, I was stepping straight into a lion's den.
Celeste cleared her throat, trying desperately to salvage her shattered poise. "Roman, surely you’re joking. She’s... she’s an entry-level assistant. She’s wearing a clearance-rack dress!"
Roman slowly turned his head toward her. The air in the room seemed to drop ten degrees. "The gown is an understated piece from a private minimalist line," Roman said softly, his voice echoing across the quiet circle of onlookers. "She wears it because she doesn't need jewels or labels to command respect. Unlike those who must drape themselves in diamonds just to hide their lack of substance."
Celeste flushed a deep, ugly crimson. She swallowed hard, unable to meet his gaze.
"And as for you, Victor," Roman continued, turning his icy glare toward my boss. "You questioned whether Lena represents your company well. Let me clarify something for you. As of eight o'clock tomorrow morning, DeLuca Enterprises becomes the majority shareholder of Laurent Logistics. So starting tomorrow, Lena doesn't represent your company—you work for hers."
Victor choked on his own breath, looking as though he might faint on the polished marble floor.
Before anyone could say another word, Roman gently pulled my hand, tucking it into the crook of his arm. "Excuse us. My wife has had enough of your hospitality."
He guided me through the crowd of gaping billionaires, stunned socialites, and whispering executives. The red sea of elite society parted for him instantly. Every eyes followed us as Roman ushered me through the towering glass doors of the Plaza and into the cool autumn air of Manhattan.
A sleek black Maybach pulled up to the curb the moment we stepped outside. The driver rushed to open the rear door.
Roman held it open for me. "In, please."
May you like
I looked at the plush leather interior, then back at him. My shock was finally wearing off, replaced by a surge of adrenaline and anger. "Who are you, and why on earth did you just tell the entire high-society world that I’m your wife?"
Roman looked at me, his expression softening just a fraction, revealing a hint of amused intrigue. "Get in, Lena. I'll explain everything. But I promise you, I'm the only thing standing between you and total professional annihilation."
