Chapter Six: Will You Marry Me?

The stylist Vincent sends is a whirlwind of efficiency and impeccable taste.

She arrives at exactly eight AM with three assistants, racks of designer clothes, and enough makeup to open a cosmetics counter. They transform my room into a makeshift salon, and for the next several hours, I’m poked, prodded, painted, and perfected.

"Mr. Torres is very specific about what he wants," the stylist, Michelle, says as she holds up a stunning red dress. "He says you need to look like you could buy and sell everyone in that room."

I stare at the dress. It’s gorgeous.

"Try it on," Michelle urges.

I slip into it, and wow.

The dress hugs every curve like it’s sewn directly onto my body. The neckline is cut perfectly to push my breasts up and out without being trashy, hitting that sweet spot between elegant and seductive. The slit runs all the way up my thigh, showing a scandalous amount of leg with every step.

I look in the mirror and barely recognize myself.

My hair is styled in soft, glamorous waves that cascade down my back. My makeup is flawless, smoky eyes that make me look mysterious and dangerous, lips painted a deep red that matches the dress perfectly. Diamond earrings catch the light with every movement.

I look expensive. Powerful. Beautiful.

I look like someone who belongs in Vincent Torres’s world.

"Perfect," Michelle breathes, stepping back to admire her work. "Absolutely perfect."

A knock sounds at my door, and one of the assistants peeks her head in. "Miss, your family has arrived at the venue. The car is ready whenever you are."

My heart jumps.

Right. The Ashfords. My fake family.

I swallow hard, staring at my reflection.

Okay, Anastasia. No. Celeste. Show them who you really are.

I take a deep breath, square my shoulders, and head out.

~

The venue is one of those ultra-modern event spaces downtown, the kind of place where million-dollar deals get made over champagne and canapés.

When I arrive, the event is already in full swing. There must be two hundred people there—investors in expensive suits, socialites dripping in diamonds, journalists with cameras—all mingling under the soft glow of crystal chandeliers.

And everywhere, the flash of cameras. Paparazzi line the entrance, shouting questions at arriving guests.

"Vincent Torres! Over here!"

"Mr. Torres, any comments on the new tech acquisition?"

I slip past them, trying to stay invisible out of habit, but I catch several heads turning as I pass. Eyes following me. Whispers starting.

Who is she?

Is that a Valentino dress?

I’ve never seen her before...

My stomach twists with nerves, but I force myself to keep walking. Head high. Shoulders back.

Like I belong there. Because I do.

I spot them almost immediately.

The Ashfords are holding court near the front of the room, exactly where Vincent says they’ll be. Front-row seats to their own destruction.

Mother looks elegant in a navy gown, pearls at her throat. Father is in his usual custom tuxedo, already nursing what’s probably his third scotch. Christopher stands beside them in a sharp gray suit, one hand resting possessively on Vivienne’s lower back.

And Vivienne. God, Vivienne looks like she’s ready for her close-up. Her maternity dress is a soft pink designer piece, her hair styled in perfect ringlets, her makeup flawless. She’s glowing, radiant, playing the role of perfect pregnant socialite to perfection.

She’s talking animatedly to Christopher, her hand resting on her belly, when her eyes land on me.

She freezes mid-sentence.

Christopher follows her gaze, and his eyes widen. Then darken. Heat floods his expression, raw, undisguised want that makes my skin crawl.

Mother turns next, and her face goes from curious to shocked to absolutely furious in the span of two seconds.

"Anastasia?" Mother’s voice rings through the ambient noise. She stalks toward me, her face twisted with rage. "What is this you’re wearing? You look like a whore!"

The nearby guests turn to stare. Whispers ripple outward.

Perfect. An audience.

"Hello, Mother," I say calmly, like she hasn’t just called me a whore in front of half of New York’s elite.

Vivienne appears at Mother’s side, her pretty face contorted with jealousy and fury. "Where did you get that dress?" she demands, her voice shrill. "Did you steal it from me? That’s mine, isn’t it? You went through my closet, you little—"

"Steal from you?" I let out a laugh that sounds nothing like my usual nervous giggle. This laugh is confident. "Darling sister, this dress costs more than your entire wardrobe. And it actually fits me properly, unlike that pink marshmallow you’re stuffed into."

Vivienne’s mouth drops open. Several nearby guests don’t even bother hiding their snickers.

"How dare you!" Mother hisses, reaching for my arm.

I step back smoothly, just out of reach. "I’d be careful about making a scene, Mother. There are cameras everywhere. Wouldn’t want people to think the Ashford family matriarch can’t control her temper at a public event."

Father appears then, his face red with anger. "Anastasia, what the hell do you think you’re doing? Get out of that ridiculous dress and go home immediately."

"I’m afraid I can’t do that," I say sweetly. "I was invited."

"Invited?" Vivienne sputters. "By who?"

I just smile and turn away, leaving them sputtering in my wake. I find a seat near the front, not with them—pointedly—and settle in to wait.

The lights dim. The crowd quiets.

And then Vincent takes the stage.

He’s devastating in a perfectly tailored black suit, his dark hair styled just slightly messy, like he’s run his hands through it, and the stage lights make his features look even sharper, more dangerous. He looks powerful. Like he could buy and sell everyone in that room without blinking.

The entire audience seems to hold its breath.

"He’s so handsome," Vivienne sighs loudly from her seat. "So hot. God, I would kill to—"

"Vivienne, hush," Mother whispers, but she sounds distracted, star-struck even.

Vincent begins his presentation, and I have to admit, he’s captivating. He talks about innovation, about disruption, about the future of technology with the kind of confidence that makes you believe every word.

But every so often, his eyes sweep the crowd.

And every time, they find me. The first time they do, his eyes widen, and his Adam’s apple bobs.

It’s just for a second, but it’s long enough to make my breath catch.

The presentation lasts about twenty minutes—charts and graphs and impressive statistics that I can barely focus on because I’m too busy trying to calm my racing heart.

And then, as he’s wrapping up, Vincent’s expression shifts. "Before I close," he says, his voice dropping slightly, becoming more intimate, "I have something personal I’d like to share."

The room goes silent. You could hear a pin drop.

"I’ve spent the last seven years building this company, focusing on business, on success, on proving myself in this industry." Vincent’s eyes scan the crowd and land directly on me. "But recently, I’ve realized that all the success in the world means nothing if you don’t have someone to share it with."

My heart stops.

He’s doing it now. Right now.

Vincent steps down from the podium, and the crowd parts like the Red Sea as he walks through them.

Straight toward me.

Vivienne makes a small, choked sound beside her mother. She sits up straighter, fixing her hair, preparing herself—which doesn’t even make sense because she’s now engaged to Christopher.

Vincent stops directly in front of me.

His dark eyes lock onto mine, and the intensity there steals the breath from my lungs. The entire room is staring. Cameras flash like lightning. I can hear the frantic clicking of phone cameras, the gasps rippling through the crowd.

And then, in one smooth motion, he drops to one knee.

"Anastasia," he says, his voice loud enough for the room to hear, "will you marry me?"