Chapter 3 - Turning the TablesThe transformation began at dawn.
I woke up not in my tiny Queens apartment, but in the master suite of Roman’s sprawling penthouse overlooking Central Park. Before I could fully process the velvet sheets and floor-to-ceiling windows, a team of stylists, tailors, and jewelers arrived, led by Roman’s personal assistant, Marcus.
By 8:00 AM, I was stepping out of the Maybach in front of the Laurent Logistics headquarters. I was wearing a tailored emerald-green silk power suit, custom Italian leather heels, and a diamond band on my ring finger that sparkled with the light of a small sun.
The moment I walked through the glass lobby doors, the atmosphere shifted.
Whispers erupted instantly. Security guards bowed respectfully. The same colleagues who had ignored me for two years stood at attention as I walked toward the executive elevators.
When I stepped into the corner office that used to belong to Victor Laurent, he was already waiting inside. His face was pale, dark circles underscoring his eyes. He had a tray of fresh artisanal coffee and pastries in his hands.
"L-Lena! I mean, Mrs. DeLuca!" Victor stuttered, practically bowing as he hurried forward. "I took the liberty of ordering your favorite blend. I want to personally apologize for last night... I was under immense stress, and my comments were entirely out of line—"
"Save it, Victor," I said coolly, taking my seat behind the massive mahogany desk that was now mine. "I'm not interested in your coffee or your excuses."
"Of course, of course," Victor pleaded, wiping sweat from his forehead. "Please, just don't tell Mr. DeLuca to dissolve my department. I have a family..."
"You will keep your job, Victor," I said, watching him let out a massive sigh of relief before I finished my sentence, "as my assistant. You will handle the paperwork I assign you, and you will report directly to me."
Victor’s mouth hung open in shock, but he knew better than to protest. "Yes, Mrs. DeLuca. Right away."
However, my victory was short-lived. That afternoon, Marcus rushed into my office with a tablet in his hand, his expression grave.
"Mrs. DeLuca, we have a problem. Celeste Moreau just leaked an exclusive interview to the tabloids."
I took the tablet. The headline burned in bold black letters: "THE BARGAIN BRIDE: DUST TO RICHES OR CORPORATE FRAUD?"
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The article contained leaked photos of my tiny apartment, my bank records, and allegations that I had embezzled funds from Laurent Logistics to fabricate a fake persona to trick Roman DeLuca.
Celeste wasn't just trying to humiliate me anymore; she was trying to destroy my life and put me in prison.
