At eight, my Bentley pulled up to the red carpet.

I did not look like Eleanor the widow who fixed alternators.

I was draped in a custom emerald-green Oscar de la Renta gown, real diamonds cascading from my ears and throat — worth more than Liam’s entire failing company.

My hair was professionally styled, my posture forged from thirty years of ruling boardrooms. Julian, in a sharp tuxedo, escorted me up the steps.

As we walked through the golden doors, a hush fell over the crowd. People stared.

Beatrice noticed the commotion. She squinted, her face morphing from polite curiosity to absolute horror as she recognized me.