I woke up very early the next morning, and the pale sunlight was just beginning to filter through the heavy velvet curtains inside my massive bedroom.
I pushed the thick cotton blankets away from my legs, and I walked directly into the attached marble bathroom to prepare my body for the difficult day ahead.
I turned the silver handles inside the glass shower enclosure, and I stood under the steaming hot water for twenty minutes to wash away the lingering physical stress of my argument with Mason. I used a simple bar of unscented soap to scrub my skin, and I rinsed the vanilla shampoo from my dark hair thoroughly before I wrapped a large white towel around my shoulders.
I walked back into the main bedroom and retrieved a pair of comfortable denim jeans and a plain grey t-shirt from the wooden closet. I dressed myself quickly because I wanted to feel physically grounded in my own familiar clothing before the aggressive styling team arrived to execute Mason's ridiculous demands.
I sat on the edge of the large mattress and brushed the tangles from my wet hair while I waited for the impending invasion.
At exactly eight o'clock, three loud knocks sounded against the heavy mahogany door, and Leon walked into the bedroom without waiting for my verbal permission. He held a clipboard in his right hand, and a chaotic team of five professional stylists followed closely behind him.
The stylists carried three large metal clothing racks filled with expensive garments, and they dragged several heavy black cosmetic cases across the thick carpet.
The room instantly filled with the loud voices of the eccentric fashion designers and the strong chemical smell of hair products.
A tall man with bright purple hair walked directly toward me, holding a plastic bowl filled with a strong-smelling blue chemical paste, and he reached his hand out to touch my damp head.
"We are going to apply this industrial bleach to lighten your dark strands, and then we will attach heavy blonde extensions, so you look much more glamorous for the television cameras," the stylist announced in a loud, energetic voice while he raised a plastic applicator brush.
I immediately swatted his hands away from my face, and I took a firm step backward to avoid the terrible chemical smell radiating from the bowl.
"You will absolutely not put bleach on my head, and you will not attach fake hair to my scalp because I refuse to damage my natural hair for a corporate press conference," I told him sternly while I crossed my arms tightly over my chest.
"You need to put that chemical paste away right now, or I will force you to leave my private bedroom."
The stylist gasped in offense and looked at Leon for support, but I did not wait for the assistant to intervene.
A female stylist pushed a heavy metal clothing rack across the room, and the metal wheels squeaked loudly against the floorboards.
She pulled three different dresses from the velvet hangers and held them up for my physical inspection. The first dress featured bright red sequins with a plunging neckline, while the second garment was constructed of tight gold fabric that looked incredibly restrictive.
The third option lacked any back fabric entirely, and the hemline was exceptionally short.
"Mr. Kingsley specifically requested that we dress you in highly revealing designer clothing so the public media will view you as a wealthy, desirable socialite," the female stylist explained as she pushed the heavy red dress toward my hands.
"These garments are imported directly from Europe, and they will highlight your physical figure perfectly for the photographers."
"I will not wear any of these ridiculous garments because they are entirely inappropriate for a morning business meeting, and they will severely restrict my physical breathing," I argued while I pushed the heavy metal rack away from my body.
"I am not a plastic doll, and I will not wear uncomfortable clothing simply to satisfy the superficial expectations of the financial press."
Leon stepped forward and tapped his metal pen against his plastic clipboard to capture my attention. His facial expression remained completely blank, but his voice carried a clear tone of strict authority.
"Mr. Kingsley instructed me to ensure your complete cooperation this morning, Miss Summers, and he explicitly stated that he will withhold your financial payment if you refuse to wear the selected clothing," Leon reminded me coldly.
"You must submit to the professional stylists so we can maintain the necessary corporate schedule."
I glared at the executive assistant, and I refused to let his financial threats break my determination.
"He can keep his money today if he truly wants to ruin this press conference, because I will walk out of the front gates wearing my denim jeans before I allow these strangers to turn me into a cheap imitation of his former fiancée. I am going to select my own clothing, and you will instruct these stylists to stop harassing me."
Leon realized I was completely serious, and he knew a public argument in the driveway would destroy Mason's corporate image entirely.
He gestured for the stylists to step backward, and he allowed me to approach the metal racks without further interference. I ignored the tight dresses and the sparkly gowns, and I searched through the wooden hangers until I found a beautifully tailored white pantsuit.
The fabric was incredibly thick and high-quality, and the design covered my skin respectfully while projecting a strong, powerful image of authority. I pulled the white blazer and the matching trousers from the rack, and I walked into the bathroom to change my clothes.
The white pantsuit fit my body perfectly, and the tailored fabric allowed me to move my arms and legs without any uncomfortable restriction.
I stood in front of the large mirror and picked up my own simple cosmetic bag. I ignored the heavy foundations and the bright lipsticks the styling team had brought, and I simply applied a thin layer of black mascara to my eyelashes and a clear gloss to my lips.
I gathered my dark hair and twisted the strands into a neat, elegant bun at the base of my neck, securing the style with a few metal hairpins.
I looked completely natural, fiercely independent, and undeniably professional. I did not look like Nadia, and I did not look like a compliant trophy wife.
I stepped out of the bathroom, and the professional stylists stared at me in total frustration.
They could not argue with the visual result because the white suit looked incredibly striking, but they were deeply annoyed that I had rejected their extreme chemical treatments and their revealing dresses. Leon inspected my appearance silently, and he realized my professional presentation would satisfy the corporate journalists perfectly.
He dismissed the styling team, and the loud group quickly packed their cosmetic cases before they rolled their metal racks out of the bedroom.
I stood alone in the quiet room for five minutes until the heavy mahogany door opened again, and Mason walked inside to inspect the final result of his expensive mandate.
He wore a sharp black suit with a dark grey tie, and he clearly expected to see a compliant, heavily altered woman waiting for him.
He stopped walking abruptly when he saw me standing near the window. He looked at my natural hair, my simple makeup, and the powerful white pantsuit covering my body.
A sudden, intense wave of genuine physical attraction flashed visibly across his face, and his dark eyes widened slightly as he took in my confident posture. He had always viewed me as a stubborn waitress in a stained apron, but he finally saw my true strength and my natural beauty in that specific moment.
This unexpected emotional reaction clearly terrified his highly controlled mind, and his jaw muscles tightened as he fought to suppress the unfamiliar feeling. He blinked rapidly and quickly hid his reaction behind his usual cold demeanor, but the physical tension in the room had permanently shifted between us.
Mason cleared his throat to hide his sudden nervousness and said, "The corporate journalists are waiting outside the front gates right now, and they will attack you like wild animals to find a single weakness in our story."
I stepped into a pair of black leather heels, looked directly into his dark eyes, and replied, "Let them ask their difficult questions, because I survived your terrible family members yesterday, and a few reporters with cameras do not frighten me at all."