Chapter 4 - The Boardroom and the Beast
By Thursday afternoon, the metamorphosis was nearly complete, and it felt entirely unnatural.
I was no longer wearing the rough polyester uniform that smelled of ammonia and cheap soap. Instead, Mrs. Vance and an army of exhausted tailors had dressed me in a structured, midnight-blue silk dress that hugged my frame with terrifying precision, paired with custom heels that made me feel like I was walking on stilts over an active volcano.
My hair had been professionally straightened and styled into dark, cascading waves that fell over my shoulders, and the cut on my hand was hidden beneath a delicate, lace-trimmed glove that matched the dress.
They hadn't just cleaned me up; they had weaponized me.
“Stand up straight, Clara,” Mrs. Vance instructed, adjusting the collar of my dress with clinical detachment. “When you walk into a room with Victor, you are an extension of his power. If you slouch, people will think he bought damaged goods. And Victor Hayes does not buy damaged goods.”
Before I could respond, the heavy double doors of the suite swung open.
Victor stood in the threshold. He had changed out of his blood-stained suit into a bespoke charcoal-gray tuxedo that made him look less like a wounded man and more like an executioner attending a royal funeral. A small, neat white bandage was still visible beneath the crisp collar of his shirt, but his posture was rigid, military, and unyielding.
His dark gray eyes swept over me, starting from the heels and moving slowly upward, lingering for a long moment on the neckline of the silk dress before meeting my eyes.
The silence between us stretched, heavy and electric.
“Well?” Mrs. Vance asked, raising an eyebrow. “Did your tailors earn their retainer, Boss?”
Victor didn't break eye contact with me. “Leave us, Mrs. Vance.”
“Sir?”
“Leave us,” he repeated, his voice dropping into that low, gravelly register that brooked no argument.
Mrs. Vance bowed her head slightly, offering me a tight, knowing smile before slipping out of the room and closing the heavy doors behind her.
The suite suddenly felt claustrophobic. Victor walked toward me, his slow, measured strides eating up the distance across the marble floor until he was standing close enough for me to feel the heat radiating off his body.
“You clean up remarkably well for a girl from the docks,” he murmured, his gaze dropping to the lace glove covering my injured hand. “Does the hand still hurt?”
“No, Mr. Hayes,” I said, keeping my chin up, channeling every ounce of stubborn South Boston pride I had left. “It’s fine. What did you do with my brother?”
A faint smirk touched his lips. “Straight to business. I like that. No weeping, no begging for mercy. You adaptation curve is impressive, Clara.”
“Where is Liam?” I repeated, my voice sharpening.
“He is currently sitting in a clean, dry room on the lower level,” Victor said calmly, leaning back against the edge of a mahogany bureau, crossing his arms over his chest. “He has a television, a hot meal, and a bucket of ice water to keep him company. I told him that his freedom, his gambling debts, and a clean slate in California depend entirely on one condition.”
My breath hitched. “What condition?”
“That you walk into the charity gala tomorrow night on my arm, smile for the cameras, play the part of the devoted, adoring fiancée to absolute perfection, and never, ever look at another man in this city as long as you draw breath.”
I stared at him, the sheer audacity of the demand taking my breath away. “Fiancée? You said ‘intended’ yesterday! Now I’m a fiancée?”
“Semantics,” Victor dismissed with a wave of his hand. “The ring is being resized as we speak. By tomorrow evening, the entire city—from the mayor down to the street-level enforcers in the North End—will know that Clara Sterling is under my absolute, unbreakable protection.”
May you like
“Sterling?” I echoed, confused. “My last name is Murphy.”
“Not anymore,” Victor said quietly, pushing off the bureau and stepping so close I could smell the subtle, dangerous scent of cedar and gunpowder clinging to his lapel. “Murphy is a debt-ridden name associated with a liability. Sterling is clean. Sterling sounds like a bank account with six digits in the Swiss Alps. Tomorrow night, Clara, you are born again.”
