Chapter 3: The Surprise in the Penthouse

(Rosalie's POV) Still reeling, I looked up and found myself staring into a pair of deep, penetrating eyes that seemed to see through everything. Him. Alexander Hawthorne. The head of New York's most elite old-money family, the Hawthorne dynasty. Known as "the untouchable king of New York." A business legend approaching thirty without a single scandal attached to his name. Like a god without weaknesses. His deep, magnetic voice rumbled above me. "Careful." I snapped back to reality and realized our position was extremely compromising in such a public setting. His large hand pressed firmly against the bare skin exposed by the dress's cutout design. His palm burned against me. "Perfect. Could this day get any worse?" I cursed Murphy's Law silently. I frowned in embarrassment, bracing my hands against his solid chest to push myself upright and escape this stranger's control. But the treacherous skirt still tangled around my feet. The moment I moved, I lost my balance again. Alexander didn't give me a chance to fall a second time. His powerful arm tightened, pulling me securely back into his hold. The control he exerted was absolute, brooking no argument. His fingertips brushed against the delicate skin of my waist, sending an involuntary shiver through me. I couldn't tell if I was imagining it, but I thought I saw a flash of amusement in his deep eyes. It vanished almost instantly. "Steady now, Miss Foster," he said quietly. I froze in shock. How did Alexander Hawthorne, someone of his stature, know my name? Alarm bells rang in my head. I opened my mouth to ask, but a shrill voice cut through the air. "What the hell are you doing?!" Lucian stood a few steps away, his face dark as a thundercloud. I calmly stepped back from Alexander's embrace, steadying myself on my feet. I lowered my gaze to the elaborate train of the wedding dress, smoothing the fabric with deliberate slowness. Lucian stormed toward me, his footsteps heavy with rage. He grabbed my wrist roughly, trying to yank me behind him like I was his property. I didn't follow meekly. Instead, I twisted my arm, forcing him to awkwardly adjust his grip. "Let go, Lucian," I said through gritted teeth. But then Lucian's gaze landed on the tall man in the impeccably tailored suit. His arrogance evaporated instantly. Recognition flashed across his face. This was Alexander Hawthorne-New York's most powerful predator in business. Lucian's voice shifted from fury to stammering flattery in a heartbeat. "Mr. Hawthorne... What brings you here?" Alexander inclined his head slightly but didn't spare Lucian a glance. He adjusted his cufflinks with unhurried precision, his gaze sweeping coldly over Lucian's hand still gripping my wrist. Then his eyes met mine. His voice was a deep, velvet baritone that sent an involuntary shiver down my spine. "If something doesn't fit properly, Miss Foster, it's better to replace it sooner rather than later." The double meaning wasn't lost on me. He wasn't just talking about the designer wedding dress. He was talking about the man standing beside me. Lucian clearly caught the implication too. Combined with Alexander's cold dismissal, his face flushed beet red. His embarrassment made his grip on my wrist tighten unconsciously. I stared directly into Lucian's eyes. "You are hurting me, Lucian. Let. Go." He opened his mouth to argue, but Alexander's voice cut through the air with unmistakable authority. "Mr. Steel, when handling precious things, one should exercise more care." The weight of that statement pressed down on Lucian. He released my wrist immediately, looking thoroughly chastised. I rubbed the reddened skin, giving Lucian a sardonic look. "Finally remembered your manners?" The boutique manager hurried over, guiding Alexander toward the second floor with practiced deference. As he passed, the cold cedar scent of his cologne drifted over me, sharp and clean. The moment Alexander disappeared upstairs, Lucian dropped his pretense entirely. His eyes filled with suspicion. "When did you get to know someone like Alexander Hawthorne?" he demanded. I stared at the man I'd loved for seven years. He felt like a complete stranger now. My gaze dropped to his collar. His tie sat crooked. And there, just above the top button of his shirt, was a vivid red lipstick mark. The shade and shape matched perfectly with the scarlet lips Delilah had worn in that video. Lucian reached out to touch my cheek, his expression shifting to fake concern. "Rose, are you feeling okay? You look pale." Nausea rolled through me. I turned my head sharply, dodging his hand. His eyes flickered with something unreadable. Then he launched into his performance. "I wanted to surprise you, that's why I came," he said earnestly. "I know I've been busy, but I couldn't miss seeing you in your wedding dress." I watched his pathetic act with cold detachment. The lies rolled off his tongue so smoothly. "I'm tired," I said flatly. "I need to change out of this dress." I turned and walked toward the fitting room without waiting for his response. Inside, I stripped off the gown mechanically, my hands trembling with suppressed rage. I changed back into my simple blouse and skirt, taking longer than necessary to compose myself. When I finally emerged, I felt a prickling sensation-the weight of someone's gaze. I looked up instinctively. On the second-floor balcony, Alexander stood with one hand in his pocket, looking down at the scene below. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes were fixed directly on me. I forced a stiff smile onto my face, clinging to the last shred of my dignity, and walked quickly toward the exit. Lucian was waiting outside. He opened the passenger door of his black Maybach with exaggerated gallantry. "Let me drive you back to the apartment," he said smoothly. I stared at that familiar car. All I could see was the video-Delilah straddling him in the back seat, her red dress hiked up, his hands all over her body. The very air inside that vehicle felt contaminated with betrayal. I swallowed the urge to rip off his mask right there on the street. "No thanks," I said coldly. I paused, letting my words carry a pointed edge. "I have my own car. And the air in yours smells... off today." Lucian's expression flickered, but he recovered quickly. That indulgent smile returned to his face. "Come back to our place in the Upper East Side," he coaxed. "I have a real surprise waiting for you there." I didn't answer. I simply turned and walked toward my own car. We arrived at the luxury apartment building separately. The moment I stepped inside, Lucian appeared holding an enormous bouquet of roses. He looked every inch the perfect fiancé. "Darling, do you like them?" he asked, his voice dripping with false affection. I took the bouquet without enthusiasm, holding it away from my body like it was a pile of dirty laundry. Dusty beige roses. Again. Seven years ago, I'd told him explicitly that I loved David Austin's Juliet roses-those soft, peachy-pink blooms with their delicate petals. But for seven years, he'd given me the wrong variety. Every single time. In the past, I would have bitten my tongue and smiled through the disappointment. Not anymore. I raised one eyebrow and let out a dry, humorless laugh. "Cappuccino roses. Again. You really define 'consistency,' don't you, Lucian?" The sarcasm sailed right over his head. He launched into a self-congratulatory speech about how he'd had them air-freighted from Ecuador, as if he were feeding treats to a pet. I set the bouquet down on the console table with deliberate carelessness. Lucian must have mistaken my acceptance of the flowers for gratitude. He stepped closer, reaching for my waist. His gaze traveled over my body with unmistakable hunger. I could practically see him replaying the image of me in that mermaid gown, the way it had hugged my curves. His Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed. For a moment, I saw something raw flash in his eyes-desire mixed with possessiveness. Rosalie usually buried herself in those stiff, shapeless business suits. She dressed like a prim schoolmarm, and he'd almost forgotten how stunning she actually was. Delilah's sexuality was obvious and performative, designed to please. But Rosalie's beauty was different-cool, restrained, sophisticated. The kind that required patience to appreciate. Too bad she'd hidden it all beneath that armor of professional clothing. Seven years ago, he'd been drawn to her precisely because of how she looked in a dress, walking across campus with effortless grace. A surge of lust mixed with the thrill of novelty washed over him. Lucian's hand slid around my shoulder, his fingers brushing against my ear in what he clearly thought was a seductive gesture. He leaned close, his breath hot against my skin. "Rose, you looked absolutely beautiful in that wedding dress." He paused, completely oblivious to how rigid my body had become in his arms. "You should stop wearing those boring work clothes," he continued, his tone light and condescending. "I prefer you in dresses. You should dress up, look pretty-be the perfect trophy. I'd enjoy looking at you more that way, wouldn't I?"