I walked toward the French doors of the house, leaving the dirt and the gardening tools behind.
“Is the dress ready?”
“The custom piece from the vault is prepped, Madame President. And the Rolls-Royce prototype is fueled in the hangar.”
“Excellent,” I said, climbing the grand staircase. “Sebastian, change my designation on the guest list. I’m not going as Julian Thorn’s wife.”
“How should I list you?”
I stepped into my bedroom. I looked at the photo on the nightstand—a picture of Julian and me from five years ago, before the money, before the Forbes covers. He looked at me with adoration then. Now, I was just a prop he had outgrown.
I walked into the walk-in closet, pushed aside the row of modest floral dresses Julian preferred I wear, and pressed a hidden panel in the mahogany wall. It slid open with a pneumatic hiss, revealing a climate-controlled secure room filled with haute couture, diamond sets worth the GDP of a small nation, and the real deeds to the empire.
“List me as President,” I whispered into the phone, a dangerous smile touching my lips. “It’s time Julian met his boss.”
The Vanguard Gala was held at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, a venue that screamed old money and new power. The steps were draped in crimson carpet, flanked by velvet ropes and a legion of paparazzi whose camera flashes burst like stroboscopic lightning.
I watched the live feed from the back of my limousine, parked two blocks away in the shadows.
I saw Julian’s black Mercedes Maybach pull up. He stepped out, looking immaculate in a Tom Ford tuxedo—a tuxedo I had approved the purchase order for. But the cameras didn’t linger on him. They swung immediately to the woman on his arm.
Isabella Ricci.
She was stunning, I’ll give her that. A former runway model turned “brand ambassador,” wearing a shimmering silver dress that was slit dangerously high and cut aggressively low. She soaked up the attention, blowing kisses to the press while Julian looked at her like she was a prize he had won at a carnival.
“Julian! Over here!” a reporter shouted. “Who is the stunner?”
“This is Isabella,” Julian beamed, placing a possessive hand on her waist. “She’s a vital consultant for our new brand direction.”
“Where’s your wife, Elara?” another voice yelled. “We heard she’d be here.”
I watched Julian’s face on the screen. He didn’t even blink. He adopted a mask of solemn concern that made my stomach turn.
“Elara unfortunately isn’t feeling well tonight,” he lied, his voice smooth as oiled silk. “She sends her apologies. Honestly, this fast-paced world isn’t really hers. She prefers the quiet of her garden. She’s… fragile.”
Fragile.
I signaled the driver. “Go.”
The Rolls-Royce Phantom—a custom build with reinforced glass and a silent engine—glided toward the museum entrance.
Inside the Grand Hall, I knew exactly what was happening. Julian was working the room, shaking hands with senators and oil tycoons, introducing Isabella as the future of the company. He was probably talking to Arthur Sterling, the man he needed to impress to close the merger.
I checked my reflection in the rearview mirror. The woman looking back wasn’t the gardener. My hair, usually in a messy bun, fell in sculpted Hollywood waves. My dress was midnight-blue velvet, heavy and regal, encrusted with crushed real diamonds that caught the light like a trapped galaxy. Around my neck hung the Star of Aurora, a sapphire pendant so massive it felt like a cold weight against my sternum.
I wasn’t Elara the wife. I was Elara the Architect.
