Chapter 2

The moment I stepped out of Derek's penthouse, my phone buzzed.

It was a message from my assistant, Elliot.

"Ma'am, the gala preparations are finalized. Guest list approved. Also — the Mitchell family submitted a last-minute RSVP requesting two VIP seats. Should I approve?"

I stared at the screen for a few seconds, then typed back:

"Approve it. Front row."

Let them come. Let them sit up close.

What's a show without an audience?

As I slid into the black Maybach waiting at the curb, Elliot's next message came through.

"Also, ma'am — the board wanted to confirm: will you be revealing your identity as CEO at tomorrow's gala?"

For three years, I'd kept my identity hidden. The world knew the Laurent Group was run by a reclusive genius who'd built a $60 billion empire from scratch, but no one knew her face. No one knew her name.

Not even my own husband.

Ex-husband, I corrected myself.

I typed back: "Yes. Tomorrow night, we go public."

The drive back to my private estate took twenty minutes. It was a place Derek never knew existed — a sprawling modern mansion on six acres of waterfront property, worth more than his entire family's net worth combined.

As I walked through the front door, my house manager, Mrs. Chen, greeted me with a warm smile.

"Welcome home, ma'am. Shall I prepare dinner?"

"Just tea, please," I said, slipping off my heels. "It's been a long night."

She paused, studying my face carefully. "Ma'am… is everything alright?"

I gave her a small smile. "I just signed my divorce papers."

Her eyes widened. "Finally! That useless man didn't deserve a single day of your time. Three years you wasted on—"

"Mrs. Chen," I said gently. "It's done. Let's not dwell on it."

She pressed her lips together, clearly biting back a rant, and nodded.

As I settled into my study with a cup of jasmine tea, I pulled up the gala seating chart on my tablet. Derek and Mia were now seated at Table 1 — right at the foot of the main stage.

Perfect.

Tomorrow, when I walked out onto that stage as the CEO and sole owner of the Laurent Group — the very company Derek's family had been desperately trying to secure a partnership with for years — they'd be close enough to see every detail of my face.

My phone buzzed again. This time, it was a call.

"Scarlett." The voice on the other end was deep, calm, and carried the kind of authority that made boardrooms fall silent.

"Mr. Vaughn," I replied.

Alexander Vaughn — the only person outside my company who knew my real identity. Old money. East Coast royalty. And for reasons I still didn't fully understand, the one man who'd been trying to get my attention for the past two years.

"I heard you finally signed the papers," he said.

"News travels fast."

"I have my ways." A pause. "Are you alright?"

"I'm fine. Better than fine, actually."

"Good. Then I'll see you tomorrow night at the gala. I believe you promised me a dance."

Before I could respond, he added, his voice dropping lower, "And Scarlett? Wear something red. I want every man in that room to know what Mitchell lost."

The call ended.

I stared at the phone, heart doing something it hadn't done in three years.

Then I shook it off and opened my closet.

Hanging in the center, preserved under glass, was a custom couture gown — blood red, hand-stitched with 4,000 crystals, designed exclusively for me by Laurent's fashion division.

Tomorrow night, Mia wanted to walk into my gala pretending to be royalty?

Fine.

I'd show her what a real queen looked like.