Just before noon, a knock echoed through the penthouse.
Jade, now dressed in a soft cream blouse and satin pants that Daniel had "accidentally" left out for her, opened the door herself.
Two women entered.
One looked like she had walked straight out of a Paris fashion week finale icy sharp bob, high heels that made no sound, and a measuring tape hanging around her neck like a weapon.
The other wore a strict blazer, her hair pulled into a tight bun that screamed discipline. Jade could already smell the posture correction and table manners from across the room.
"Miss Lee," said the first woman, smiling professionally.
"Helena" Jade replied with a smile
"And I'm Miss Adeline," said the other, clearly not here for pleasantries. "I'm here to teach you grace, etiquette, public poise, and how not to offend a room full of old-money aristocrats by simply breathing the wrong way."
Jade blinked. "...Wow. You two must be fun at parties."
Helena laughed softly, but Miss Adeline didn't flinch.
"We have one month," Adeline said firmly. "You are about to become Mrs. Ooman. And Mr. Ooman's circle expects perfection. We don't have time for resistance."
Jade raised a brow. "That sounds a lot like a threat."
Helena clapped once. "Let's start with your wardrobe. You'll need a look for charity luncheons, private gallery previews, business dinners, yacht weekends, maybe a political fundraiser…"
"Again "
Jade muttered under her breath, "I just learned to pronounce 'bruschetta' correctly."
Miss Adeline handed her a small book titled *Grace for the Modern Woman* and said, "Read that. Then we'll work on walking, sitting, and smiling without accidentally starting class war."
Jade plopped onto the velvet chair. "Fantastic. So I'm being rebranded like a luxury perfume?"
Helena grinned. "More like polished. You're already the diamond, darling."
But Jade wasn't so sure.
As she stood still for her measurements and listened to instructions on which fork to use with oysters, all she could think was:
Vesperis. The door.
And now... this transformation.
Was she really about to marry a man with amber eyes and a hidden past?
Or worse... become someone else entirely?
.
.
.
Two weeks had passed since Jade moved into Daniel's penthouse.
Fourteen days of transformation.
Of measured smiles, posture corrections, whispered reminders from Miss Adeline like "Don't slouch, dear, you're not in a boxing match," and Helena wrapping her in designer fabrics like she was being gift-wrapped for high society.
And she played the role perfectly.
She walked in heels like a duchess, held champagne like it was second nature, and spoke just enough to be memorable, but never too much to be scandalous.
She was becoming the woman the contract demanded.
But at a cost.
Her mother, whom she used to see every day, had only visited once. And Gabriel… he hadn't replied to a single message. Not even the "I know you're mad but I miss your ugly face" one.
He had vanished like smoke.
Sometimes at night, Jade would sit by the giant windows of the penthouse, looking out at the glittering skyline, wondering…
*Who am I even becoming?*
But then she'd remember clause 7 of the contract.
The nightly kiss before midnight.
The touches barely crossing a line but always charged.
Daniel never pushed.
But he didn't need to. His presence alone unraveled her.
He was calm, controlled… watching her transform from a firecracker into fine porcelain.
And she let him.
She obeyed every rule. Wore what was chosen. Said what was rehearsed.
Because deep down, she wasn't just doing it for the contract.
She wanted to understand him. That door. That name.
*Vesperis.*
She hadn't forgotten.
And as elegant as she looked now, part of her still burned with rebellion.
.
.
.
The sun was gentle that morning, filtering through the golden windows of Café Marquise, one of those expensive places where the teacups cost more than rent and everyone acted like they were born wearing silk.
Jade sat alone, sipping her latte and pretending not to notice the heads turning her way. Of course they recognized her.
*"Daniel Ooman's fiancée."*
The title clung to her like an expensive label.
She was used to the attention by now used to the stares, the whispers, the silent judgments.
What she wasn't expecting was the trembling server who accidentally tipped an entire cup of tea on her marble table, nearly spilling it onto Jade's new Dior bag.
The girl gasped, visibly terrified. "I'm , I'm so sorry, Miss Lee! I didn't mean please don't .."
Jade blinked. "Whoa, calm down. It's tea, not acid."
The server froze.
"I used to carry ten trays with my elbow while dodging entitled customers who clicked their tongues when I breathed too loud," Jade said, grabbing a napkin. "It's fine. Really."
She even started wiping the table herself.
The server gawked. "Y-you shouldn't be the one doing that…"
"Let me have this," Jade said dryly. "It's the closest thing I've done to exercise all week."
Gasps rippled across the room. Murmurs rose. Phones were lifted discreetly. A few eyebrows flew off faces.
"Is she seriously wiping a table? What would Mr. Ooman say?"
And then, one voice louder, smugger, nastier cut through the murmurs.
"You can clean a pig all you want, but it's still a pig."
Jade paused. Her hand froze mid-wipe.
She didn't even look at the woman who said it.
She just muttered under her breath, "Let me show you what a pig can do."
And then she moved.
With the grace of a trained ballerina and the rage of a hurricane, Jade leapt over her chair, marched straight to the woman in designer heels and fake attitude and punched her square in the jaw.
Screams erupted.
"What did you say? Huh?" Jade barked, already grabbing a handful of the woman's perfectly styled hair. "Say it again, Miss Poetic Wisdom!"
The café was chaos. Phones were out. Gasps were now full screams. But Jade didn't care.
"I may be a pig," she hissed, "but I'll make sure you never forget the squeal "