Chapter 2 - The Fitting of the Empress
The deal was struck in the middle of the night, but reality arrived at seven o'clock the next morning with the force of a battering ram.
A sharp knock rattled the door of my third-floor servant quarters at the back of the mansion.
I had barely slept two hours, tossing and turning while wondering if I had signed a deal with the devil himself.
When I pulled open the door, I didn't see Roman Rossi.
Standing in the narrow hallway was an impeccably dressed woman in her late forties, wearing sharp cat-eye glasses and an exquisite charcoal pantsuit.
Behind her stood two burly men carrying three rolling wardrobe racks covered in black velvet garment bags.
“Miss Miller?” the woman asked, her sharp eyes scanning me from head to toe with practiced efficiency.
“Yes?” I pulled my faded flannel robe tighter around my collarbones.
“I am Elena Vance—no relation to your Derek Vance, thank God—and Mr. Rossi has retained my agency for the morning.”
She stepped past me without waiting for an invitation, waving her manicured hand to instruct the men where to position the heavy racks.
“You have four hours to be transformed from a working-class ghost into the most untouchable woman in the state of Illinois.”
“Wait,” I protested, holding my hands up. “I don't need all this. I bought a navy dress off the rack at the department store last week—”
Elena turned around slowly, pulled down her glasses, and gave me a look of profound aesthetic horror.
“Child, you are attending an event where your ex-partner and your judgmental family intend to feast upon your insecurity like hyenas.”
She unzipped the first velvet bag with a loud, crisp sound.
“You are not wearing polyester navy. You are wearing bespoke Italian silk cut specifically to celebrate every single curve your family taught you to hide.”
For the next three hours, my cramped bedroom became a battlefield of fashion, cosmetics, and posture training.
Elena didn't bring sample sizes designed for starving runway models.
She brought garments crafted with substantial fabrics, structural corsetry, and rich, unapologetic jewel tones.
Growing up, my mother had constantly forced me into boxy, dark clothing, claiming that large bodies needed to be camouflaged.
She told me that bright colors drew unnecessary attention and that fitted silhouettes were inappropriate for someone of my size.
Elena ripped those rules to shreds with ruthless precision.
“Stand straight,” Elena commanded, pulling a tape measure across my shoulders.
“A woman with a commanding presence does not slump her shoulders to apologize for breathing air.”
She pulled out an emerald green gown made of heavy, liquid-draped satin.
The dress had an off-the-shoulder neckline that highlighted the line of my neck and collarbones.
It hugged my waist with built-in boning that provided support without suffocating me, then cascaded downward into an elegant, draped column with a daring side slit.
When I stepped into the gown and Elena zipped it up, my breath hitched in my chest.
I turned toward the full-length mirror leaning against the brick wall.
I didn't recognize the woman looking back at me.
The rich emerald color brought out the warm gold flecks in my hazel eyes.
The cut of the dress didn't hide my hips or my bust; it sculpted them into an image of regal, undeniable power.
“You see that?” Elena whispered, standing behind me and resting her hands on my bare shoulders.
“You have spent your entire life letting small-minded people convince you that beauty only exists in small packages.”
She tilted my chin upward.
“Tonight, you look like a queen who owns the ground they crawl upon.”
A knock sounded at the open bedroom door, cutting off my emotional response.
Roman Rossi stood in the doorway.
He had changed into a tailored charcoal three-piece suit cut from Italian wool, accompanied by a midnight-black silk tie.
His dark hair was neatly brushed back, and his jawline was freshly shaved, revealing a faint, jagged scar near his ear.
He stopped dead in his tracks the moment his eyes landed on me.
For three agonizing seconds, the quiet, terrifying mob boss of Chicago simply stood there, completely rendered speechless.
His gaze swept slowly down the neckline of the emerald dress, over the fitted waist, and down to the hem of the silk skirt.
A dark, dangerous fire flared in his eyes before he masked it behind his usual cold composure.
“Elena,” Roman spoke, his voice lower than usual. “You outdid yourself.”
“I merely framed the masterpiece, Roman,” Elena replied smoothly, gathering her sewing pins.
“The rest is up to her.”
Elena excused herself and her assistants, leaving Roman and me alone in the small, sunlit room.
The contrast between his immaculately tailored presence and my humble servant bedroom was suffocating.
“Are you ready for this, Sadi?” he asked quietly, taking a step toward me.
“I’m terrified, Mr. Rossi,” I admitted honestly, my hands trembling slightly against the cool satin of my dress.
“Call me Roman. From this moment on, you have never been my employee.”
He reached into his breast pocket and produced a velvet jewelry box.
When he popped the brass clasp, a heavy platinum necklace encrusted with brilliant-cut diamonds caught the morning sun.
Beside it lay a matching emerald-cut solitaire diamond ring that had to be at least five carats.
“Roman, no,” I gasped, instinctively taking a step backward. “I can't wear those. Those are worth millions.”
“They belonged to my grandmother,” he said softly, lifting the necklace from its velvet cradle.
“She was an immigrant woman who built an empire beside my grandfather while society spat on her name.”
He moved behind me, his fingers lightly brushing the sensitive skin of my neck as he fastened the heavy platinum clasp.
A shiver raced down my spine at his touch, warm and intoxicating.
“She used to tell me that jewelry is not for vanity. It is armor.”
He stepped back around to face me, taking my left hand into his.
Without asking, he slid the massive diamond ring onto my ring finger.
It fit perfectly, as if it had been forged specifically for my hand.
“Why the ring?” I whispered, my voice trembling. “A date doesn't wear an engagement ring.”
Roman’s dark eyes locked onto mine with an intensity that made the floor feel unstable beneath my heels.
“Because if we are going to burn your past to the ground tonight, Sadi, we aren't leaving any ashes behind.”
May you like
He offered me his arm, his expression stern, protective, and utterly lethal.
“Let's go show your family what they threw away.”
