Chapter 4 - The Transformation
For six years, Beatrice Gallagher had been told to shrink.
Her mother had bought her dark, shapeless dresses meant to "minimize" her curves. Preston had subtly discouraged her from wearing bright colors or bold jewelry, claiming it made her look "loud" and "unrefined." Her sister had constantly offered her dieting tips disguised as sisterly concern.
They wanted her quiet. They wanted her invisible. They wanted her ashamed of her presence so she would never realize how much power she actually held.
By 3:00 PM that afternoon, inside the penthouse suite above the Velvet Orchid, Beatrice stood in front of a floor-to-ceiling mirror.
The wet wedding dress was gone, tossed into a wastebasket. In its place, she wore a tailored, double-breasted emerald green pantsuit crafted from heavy Italian wool, brought directly to the penthouse by Dante’s personal stylist. The jacket nipped in sharply at her waist, accentuating her voluptuous figure, while the wide-leg trousers draped flawlessly over three-inch black leather heels.
Her wet hair had been blow-dried into sleek, thick waves that tumbled over her shoulders. Her lips were painted a deep, unapologetic crimson.
For the first time in her life, Beatrice didn't look like a woman trying to hide.
She looked like a queen preparing to launch a siege.
The door to the dressing room opened softly. Dante stepped inside, holding a glass of iced water. He stopped dead in his tracks when he saw her.
His dark eyes swept down her body—taking in the bold green suit, the sharp lines, the proud arch of her spine, and the dangerous fire in her eyes. There was no pity in his expression. Only a raw, simmering hunger that made Beatrice’s skin tingle.
“You look breathtaking,” Dante said, his voice dropping into a raspy murmur.
“I look like a chief executive,” Beatrice corrected smoothly, turning to face him.
“You look like both,” Dante countered. He walked over, setting the water glass on a side table. From his pocket, he pulled out a delicate velvet box. He clicked it open.
Inside lay a heavy gold chain holding an antique emerald pendant surrounded by tiny, brilliant diamonds.
“You’re empty on jewelry,” Dante said softly, stepping behind her. “And a Gallagher never faces her enemies empty-handed.”
Beatrice looked in the mirror as Dante reached around her neck. His warm fingers brushed against her skin, sending a jolt of electricity down her spine. He fastened the clasp. The heavy emerald rested perfectly in the hollow of her throat, matching the exact shade of her suit.
“Why are you doing this, Dante?” Beatrice asked quietly, meeting his dark gaze in the mirror. “You have your ring back. You could let me fight Preston on my own.”
Dante kept his hands resting lightly on her shoulders. His gaze was intense, unwavering.
“Because three years ago, when my father was murdered and the Chicago families tried to tear the Corvino syndicate apart,” Dante whispered, his voice dangerously close to her ear, “everyone expected me to crumble. Everyone told me I wasn't ready. I know what it feels like when vultures circle a dying empire, waiting to pick the flesh off your bone.”
He leaned down slightly, his lips brushing the side of her shell-pink ear.
“And because,” he added, “I despise men who mistake a woman’s size or soft heart for weakness. Preston Kensington is about to learn that the woman he tried to bury is a mountain.”
Beatrice felt a swell of power bloom in her chest. She turned around to face him, inches away from his chest.
“The press conference is in two hours,” she said. “The Chicago Commerce Club is holding its annual charity gala at the Drake Hotel tonight. Preston and my mother are going to use the event to formalize the conservatorship in front of the city’s top investors.”
“I know,” Dante smiled, his eyes glinting with wicked mischief. “I’ve already secured our table.”
“Our table?” Beatrice raised an eyebrow. “You think they’ll let a Corvino through the front door of the Drake Hotel?”
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Dante pulled two gold-embossed invitation cards from his jacket pocket and tapped them against his palm.
“They won't have a choice,” Dante said softly. “Because as of twenty minutes ago, I purchased seventy percent of the debt held on the Drake Hotel’s property mortgage. Tonight, Beatrice... we own the room.”
