Six o’clock on Friday morning arrived not with the gentle glow of dawn, but with Genevieve slamming a silver tray of high-definition prosthetic tools onto my vanity like a surgeon preparing for open-heart surgery.
“Do not blink, do not breathe, and under no circumstances are you allowed to smile until the silicone sets,” Genevieve ordered in her razor-sharp French accent, aggressively gluing strategic contour pieces onto my jawline.
“I am an actor, Genevieve,” I mumbled around the lip tape, keeping my eyes locked on the lighted vanity mirror.
“I can hold a face for four hours straight if it means keeping my sanity intact.” Roxie Fox, my internal commentary booth shrieked, red warning lights flashing across the entire dashboard.
This is it.
The Super Bowl of high-society fraud.
In two hours, you are walking into a boardroom full of octogenarian billionaires who eat drama students for breakfast.
After last night’s near-miss in the kitchen with Leo, your camouflage needs to be absolute.
If your cheekbone falls off mid-monologue, you are going straight to maximum-security prison!
“Hold still,” Genevieve snapped, blending heavy silver highlights into my hairline, smoothing the micro-mesh cap, and securing my dark hair into a tight, aristocratic chignon that felt like it was pulling my eyebrows halfway up my forehead.
She dusted a layer of translucent powder across my skin, added a deep, matte-plum lipstick, and stepped back to inspect her handiwork under the harsh white lights.
By seven thirty, the transformation was complete.
The reflection staring back at me wasn’t a nineteen-year-old college student who sprinted across a kitchen in duck-print pajama pants hours ago.
It was Lady Sterling: an imposing, cold-eyed Monaco matriarch wearing a tailored dark navy tweed dress with silver buttons, three strands of heavy South Sea pearls, six-inch black leather stilettos, and an expression so icy it could wither fresh flowers at fifty yards.
“Perfection,” Genevieve murmured, folding her brushes with a satisfied smirk.
“You look like you own three tax havens, dictate foreign policy as a hobby, and haven’t smiled since 1994.” “I feel like a walking piece of bulletproof glass,” I rasped in my deep, smoke-and-velvet matriarch voice, testing the vocal resonance low in my chest.
“Let’s go slay some corporate dragons.” I glided out of the dressing suite and into the high-ceilinged penthouse foyer, the sharp clack-clack-clack of my six-inch heels echoing off the polished marble like a countdown timer to Armageddon.
Julian was waiting by the private elevator.
He was dressed in a pristine, charcoal three-piece suit, his dark hair combed back with lethal precision.
He looked imposing, dangerous, and completely untouchable—the ultimate corporate king preparing to defend his throne against a hostile coup.
As I approached, his dark eyes swept slowly over me—taking in the razor-sharp prosthetic jawline, the towering posture, and the sheer, unadulterated cold confidence radiating off my face.
A slow, dangerous spark flickered in the depths of his eyes.
Emergency alert!
my brain whimpered, my pulse executing an instant, illegal sprint against my ribs.
He is doing the intense CEO eye contact again!
Do not let the crisp tailored vest distract you!
You have a boardroom execution to stage!
“You look terrifying,” Julian said, his voice dropping into that deep, velvet frequency that sent a sudden jolt of heat straight down my spine.
“I aim to please, Son,” I rasped back smoothly, resting one gloved hand on my hip and tilting my chin up to a ninety-degree angle.
“Though if Elder Sterling attempts to question my lineage today, I might be forced to smack him with my vintage leather handbag.” Julian let out a low, quiet chuckle—a sound so rare and warm it nearly knocked my high-society posture completely off balance.
He stepped closer, his long fingers lightly reaching out to adjust the stiff, structured collar of my navy tweed dress.
His knuckles brushed against the bare skin near my collarbone for a fraction of a second, setting my blood on fire despite the air-conditioned chill.
“Elder Sterling has been rallying the minority shareholders all morning,” Julian noted, his gaze locking onto mine with absolute, unshakeable focus.
“He thinks he has the votes to force a buyout.
He expects us to walk in defensive.” “Then he clearly doesn’t know who he’s dealing with,” I squeaked out, before quickly dropping back into my low, raspy tone to save face.
“Theatre majors do not play defense, Mr.
Sterling.
We own the stage from the moment the curtain goes up.” “That’s what I’m counting on,” Julian murmured, stepping back and offering me his arm with formal precision.
“When we step off that elevator at Sterling Tower, the entire national media and every hostile board member in the city will be waiting.” I slid my gloved hand over his dark wool sleeve, feeling the solid, unshakeable muscle beneath the fabric.
Hold the line, Roxie, my inner fan-girl whispered as the elevator doors chimed open.
You are fake-playing his terrifying aunt.
Your heart is strictly off-limits.
Keep your eyes on the prize!
The private elevator plunged down thirty floors, dropping us directly into the underground VIP garage of Sterling Tower.
The moment the steel doors slid open, a wall of flashing camera lights, booming voices, and shouting news reporters exploded through the glass security partitions outside.
Security guards in black tactical suits pushed through the chaotic crowd, forming a moving human shield around the sleek black limousine waiting with its doors open.
“Lady Sterling!
Is it true you’re revoking the board’s voting rights?!” “Julian!
Is the Sterling merger still moving forward?!” “Lady Sterling, look over here!” I didn’t blink.
I didn’t flinch.
I let out a low, aristocratic scoff, adjusted my heavy pearl necklace, and stepped straight into the blinding light like an empress inspecting her subjects.
“Amateurs,” I whispered under my breath, letting Julian escort me smoothly into the plush leather interior of the limousine.
Julian slid in beside me, pulling out his encrypted tablet to review the final boardroom agenda.
But as the heavy car pulled out into the crowded city traffic toward the executive entrance, I caught his reflection in the dark tinted glass, watching me in quiet fascination.
“Scared?” he asked softly, breaking the silent hum of the engine.
“Terrified,” I admitted, turning my head to meet his dark gaze with a small, genuine smile that briefly broke through the cold mask of my heavy makeup.
“After almost getting caught by Leo last night, my nerves are fried.
But I’m not backing down.
We have a company to save.” Julian stared at me for a long, heavy beat, his jaw tightening as a dark, protective warmth flooded his expression.
“Nobody touches you in that boardroom today, Roxie,” he said softly, his tone laced with pure, absolute steel.
“I promise you.” Before my brain could process the sudden, overwhelming thump in my chest, the limousine slammed to a smooth halt at the foot of the private executive tower entrance.
The glass doors of the 50th-floor executive suite loomed straight ahead.
Inside, twenty elderly, suit-wearing board members sat around a forty-foot mahogany table, led by Elder Sterling himself—a man whose face looked like it hadn’t cracked a smile since the Cold War.
This is it, my brain screamed as Julian reached out, pushing open the heavy frosted glass doors.
Step up, Lady Sterling.
Time to turn this corporate lion’s den into your personal stage!
(￢‿￢ ) Who do you think drops the first savage roast in the boardroom?