Chapter 3 - The St. Regis Transformation
The penthouse suite at the St. Regis was bathed in soft, warm light when I stepped out of the private elevator fifteen minutes later.
A team of six people was already waiting for me in the living room.
At the center stood Henri, the legendary French designer who had personally styled European royalty and global heads of state for thirty years. Beside him were two master makeup artists, a hair stylist holding a case of diamond-encrusted pins, and my personal attorney, Julian Cross—a man whose legal firm billed three thousand dollars an hour to dismantle Fortune 500 companies.
"Mon dieu, Elowen," Henri breathed, stepping forward and taking both of my hands in his. "What have you been doing to yourself in that terrible house? You look like a ghost!"
"I was pretending to be a ghost, Henri," I said, letting him lead me toward the floor-to-ceiling mirror in the dressing area. "Now I'd like to remind people that I'm alive."
"With pleasure, my Chairwoman," Henri smiled, gesturing to his assistants.
For the next forty-five minutes, the quiet, humble wife of Weston Prescott was systematically dismantled and resurrected.
My plain, pale skin was brought to life with glowing, porcelain-finish foundation, sharp, defined cheekbones, and a deep, blood-red matte lipstick that transformed my mouth into an absolute weapon. My dark brown hair, which had spent eight years pinned back in a loose, invisible bun, was washed, dried, and styled into cascading, glossy Hollywood waves that spilled over my shoulders like silk.
Then came the gown.
It was a masterpiece of haute couture—a custom obsidian-black silk velvet dress that hugged every curve of my waist, draped low across my back, and featured a slit that ran up my thigh, revealing heels crafted from dark, shimmering crystal.
When Henri fastened the thirty-carat pink diamond necklace around my neck, the heavy stones settling against my collarbone, the transformation was complete.
Julian Cross stepped up beside me, handing me a leather folder containing forty pages of financial audits and foreclosure notices.
"Prescott Global is currently operating on a four-hour cash reserve, Elowen," Julian said, his tone purely professional. "Weston spent the entire afternoon assuring his board that the mysterious institutional investor from Vance-Caldwell Equity—the Chairwoman who holds seventy percent of his debt—would be sitting at his table tonight to sign the ninety-million-dollar restructuring agreement."
"He really believes that?" I asked, examining the diamond ring on my index finger.
"He is entirely convinced of it," Julian chuckled softly. "His vice president, Miss Victoria Vance—no relation to your late father's family, I assure you—has been telling the financial press all week that she personally secured the Chairwoman's interest through her social contacts in London."
"Victoria is very good at taking credit for things she didn't build," I noted dryly. "And my mother-in-law?"
"Claudia Prescott spent thirty thousand dollars of Prescott Global's operational funds yesterday on a diamond tiara for tonight," Julian replied, handing me a glass of vintage champagne. "She told her bridge club this morning that once the deal is signed tonight, she intends to force Weston to file for divorce so he can marry Miss Vance before the spring gala season."
I took a slow sip of the champagne, the cold, crisp bubbles effervescing against my lips.
"Then everything is proceeding exactly as planned," I said, setting the glass down on the marble table. "Is the Maybach downstairs?"
"The motorcade is waiting, Chairwoman," Arthur said, stepping out from the private corridor wearing his crisp black gloves. "The security detail has cleared your entrance at the Grand Ballroom of the Palace Hotel."
I turned away from the mirror. The woman who had spent eight years scrubbing floors, enduring insults, and apologising for her very existence was gone.
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In her place stood Elowen Vance-Caldwell—the wealthiest single woman in North America, and the woman holding the hammer that was about to shatter Weston Prescott's entire life.
"Let's go," I said. "My husband hates it when people are late."
