Chapter 3 - The Mirror and the Mirror's Edge
For the next five days, the penthouse on Fifth Avenue became a fortress.
Roman refused to leave my side, conducting all high-level business from his home study while team after team of private physicians, stylists, and security advisors passed through our living room.
On the fourth morning, I stood in front of the floor-to-ceiling mirror in the master bedroom.
The bandages had come off. What remained of my long, dark hair was a short, textured pixie cut—neatened up by a high-end celebrity stylist Roman had flown in from Paris. The jagged tracks were gone, replaced by a sharp, striking frame that emphasized my high cheekbones and dark brown eyes.
I didn't look like the quiet, modest restaurant manager who wore oversized sweaters and hid behind her hair. I looked dangerous.
"You look like royalty," a voice murmured from the doorway.
I turned to see Roman standing there, leaning against the doorframe in his dark trousers and white dress shirt, his eyes sweeping over me with unreserved admiration.
"I look like I'm ready to fight," I corrected softly, smoothing the fabric of the dark emerald velvet maternity gown the designer had delivered an hour ago. The dress clung to my eight-month bump with regal pride, paired with low, comfortable leather heels and a simple diamond choker Roman had given me on our first anniversary.
"That's the same thing in my world," Roman walked over, wrapping his heavy arms around my waist from behind, resting his chin on my shoulder as we both looked into the glass. "How are you feeling? The doctor said you needed rest."
"I rested for three days, Roman," I said, turning my head to kiss his jawline. "My mother worked sixteen-hour shifts on her feet until the day I was born. A Kane girl from Queens doesn't hide in bed while people try to ruin her family."
A soft knock interrupted us. Lucas stepped into the room, holding a encrypted tablet.
"Boss, the board members have all entered the executive tower on Wall Street," Lucas reported, his expression serious. "Julian Vance and Victoria just arrived. Victoria brought two reporters from the Wall Street Journal. They are circulating rumors that you’ve lost control of the firm due to 'family instability.'"
Roman’s eyes darkened in the mirror. "Have the press credentials revoked?"
"No," I cut in firmly, turning around in Roman’s arms.
Roman frowned down at me. "Bianca—"
"Leave the reporters there," I said, my voice steady, carrying the quiet authority I used to use when clearing out drunk mobsters from my restaurant alley. "Victoria Vance bought those reporters because she wants a public execution. She wants the city to see the 'poor girl from Queens' get thrown out of the Kane empire. Let them film every second of it. It’s time they learn what happens when you mess with a girl who knows how to hold a knife."
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Roman stared at me for three long seconds. Then, a slow, dark chuckle escaped his chest—a sound of absolute, prideful adoration.
"Lucas," Roman commanded, his arm tightening around my waist. "Call the motorcade. My wife wants an audience."
