Chapter Twelve
Elsa
I’ve done it now.
Last night, I walked into that ballroom muted on purpose. Conservative lines, flats, very purposely understated. A version of myself designed to be ignored by anyone and everyone.
It didn’t work. Antonio noticed me.
Last night, I didn’t question it. I told myself he could see through the armor I was wearing, that he saw something under the surface.
But now I know the truth. He didn’t see anything beneath the surface except the potential to screw me into the acquisition.
The surge of anger—and hurt I don’t let myself acknowledge—makes my features go hard with resolve.
I’ll be damned if Conti gets the acquisition now, but it’s not enough. Not after what he did.
He has to pay.
The truth is, I know exactly what I look like.
I’ve known my whole life.
“Are you going to be a model like your mother?” people asked. It was always expected I would be.
When your mother is Lajla Floren, globally adored and coveted, there’s no question about it.
She’s mostly retired now, technically, but still has the kind of beauty that makes rooms shift around her.
I grew up watching people fall silent when she entered a space—watching the way attention turned toward her automatically.
It’s a skill I learned early, backstage at fashion shows and at photo shoots. One I don’t employ often.
And my father—no, he’s not a supermodel, but he’s the kind of handsome that fits perfectly with my mom. Handsome in a way that makes him stand out, even next to her.
It’s a genetic fact, not an opinion, and I learned that early on also. I learned it because people have been fawning over my looks for as long as I can remember, as if that’s the most important thing about me.
Then I shocked everyone and went in my own direction. But when I started in business, it wasn’t what I expected. The looks I got weren’t the same ones you received on red carpets.
Men smiled too much in creepy and calculating ways, offering me things I didn’t earn in exchange for “favors.” Women shut me out and blocked my path, deciding I was their competition, even when I should have earned their respect.
So I built my wardrobe like a wall. High necklines. Long hems. Shapeless bodices. Flats. Unflattering makeup. I made myself easy to respect by making myself harder to look at.
It worked.
Until last night.
Until a man looked at me like he saw straight through the wall anyway—like he didn’t care what I wore, only what was under it.
I lift my chin a fraction and keep my gaze steady on my own eyes in the mirror.
Tonight, I’m not downplaying anything.
Tonight, Antonio is going to eat his heart out.
Then I’m going to stomp on it.
My dress tonight is nothing like the one from the gala.
It’s a deep, rich black. The fabric skims my body, accentuating it instead of hiding it, fitted through my waist and hips like it was made for me, then slicing up one thigh in a slit that goes high enough to make the whole thing feel like a dare.
When I shift my weight, the open part shifts with me and shows leg—smooth, long, unapologetic.
The neckline is low, cut in a way that frames my breasts instead of pretending they don’t exist. It’s stunning and hard to miss.
And the heels, actual heels.
Black stilettos, sharp and high, the kind I stopped wearing years ago because they put most men’s eyes right in line with my boobs. They change my posture instantly, tilt my hips, lengthen me even more. Tall becomes taller. Willowy becomes lethal.
My makeup is no longer minimal. My skin is still even and clean, but my eyes are the point tonight—smoky eyes with liner that makes the blue look brighter, lashes that make my stare heavier. Contour that sharpens what’s already there.
My lips are definitely not peach.
My lips are a deep, glossy red, the kind of color that makes people think about biting before they think about speaking.
My hair is down, styled in soft, polished waves that frame my face and spill over my shoulders. The kind that looks effortless, but that took time.
I turn slightly, watching the slit shift, watching the neckline, watching the heels do exactly what they’re meant to do.
Not arrogant. Not performative.
Lethal.
I meet my own gaze in the mirror and let the smallest, calmest smile touch my mouth.
I grab my clutch off the dresser, then reach for a black wrap—light enough to drape over my shoulders, just enough coverage to look polite until I don’t need to. I slip it on, take one last look at myself, and exhale.
Everything—the dress, the heels, the clutch, the wrap—all brand new as of this afternoon. With Antonio in mind.
I open the door and look both directions down the hallway.
Because this is the same hotel the rest of the Northstar team is staying in, and the last thing I need tonight is to step out of my room and run straight into David—or Eleanor—or Malcolm—while I’m dressed like this, I open just enough to check.
I scan left. Right. No familiar voices, no footsteps I recognize, no chance encounter that turns into questions I can’t answer.
Clear.
Good.
The heels change everything. They lengthen my stride, shift my balance, make every step feel deliberate. I keep my pace smooth anyway, eyes up, attention sharp as I leave the room and move down the corridor with my head high and my expression composed.
I pass the elevator bank without incident, the doors opening, and I slide into the car with the kind of timing that makes it look effortless. My pulse doesn’t spike until the lobby comes into view—until I’m moving through the space where I could run into someone I know.
I don’t.
Luck, or planning, or both.
The lobby is the last risk—too open, too many angles, too easy to get spotted—so I keep my gaze forward and move like I’m supposed to be here, and no one is allowed to question it.
A few heads turn as I cross toward the doors. It’s not subtle. It never is when I look like this. I keep my gaze forward and don’t reward any of it with a glance.
Outside, the night air hits my skin, and I let out a subtle breath of relief.
The same sleek black car from this morning idles there, engine humming quietly. Antonio said a car would pick me up, which implied that he would be waiting for me at the restaurant.
The driver steps out the moment he sees me. Crisp uniform, professional posture. His eyes flick over me once before he catches himself, and I can see the strain in his jaw as he forces his gaze back to my face.
He opens the back door. “Good evening, ma’am.”
His politeness is perfect. His effort not to stare is not.
Other people nearby aren’t managing it half as well. I catch the quick double-takes in my periphery, the slowed steps, the too-long looks. I don’t acknowledge any of them.
I step into the car, smooth and unhurried, and settle onto the leather seat.
The door closes with a soft sound.
I adjust my wrap, set my clutch in my lap, and let my mouth curve.
Perfect.