Chapter 37
The black Cayenne glided to a stop before the Valentine family villa.
Stella Valentine sat in the passenger seat, her eyes veiled by a white silk scarf. The familiar scent of osmanthus blossoms drifted through the air from the trees lining the estate.
"Is Mr. Alistair here?"
An unfamiliar female voice answered, "He had urgent business. I'm taking you home."
Stella's fingers tightened around the seatbelt. That morning at the hotel, it had been Mr. Alistair who tied the scarf over her eyes in the darkness and guided her into the car.
"May I ask who you are?"
"Call me Miranda." The woman chuckled. "Your husband sent me."
"Can I remove the scarf now?"
"Be my guest."
Stella slowly lifted the fabric, blinking against the light. Beside her sat a sharply dressed woman with cropped hair and impeccable makeup—every inch the corporate elite.
"What a waste of such a pretty face." Miranda studied her in the rearview mirror. "Dressed like a potato sack."
Stella glanced down at her faded clothes. Since marrying Adrian Roland, she'd spent her days waiting at home. Later, consumed with saving Ethan, she'd abandoned all thought of fashion.
"It doesn't matter."
"Of course it matters!" Miranda flung open the door and signaled to another vehicle. "Let's begin!"
Several assistants suddenly swarmed the car, ushering Stella into the backseat. An array of designer garments appeared before Miranda selected a navy blue floral embroidered sundress.
"He knows you too well." Miranda's smile turned knowing. "Men always dress their women best."
"You're mistaken. We have a professional arrangement."
"Really?" Miranda arched a brow. "What employer goes to such lengths for an employee?"
Stella fell silent. These past days with Mr. Alistair left her unsettled—he resembled Hugo Merovingian yet didn't. Who could know her so intimately?
"Hurry and change. We have hair and makeup next."
Stella insisted on dressing alone. She couldn't bear anyone seeing the surgical scars across her torso.
The midnight blue velvet dress clung elegantly to her frame, its embroidered blossoms highlighting her porcelain shoulders with refined grace.
When the car door reopened, Miranda's eyes widened.
"My God..." she breathed. "No wonder he's obsessed."
Tiny diamonds twinkled like stars in Stella's upswept hair. Miranda slipped matching heels onto her feet with admiration. "Versace's latest—fewer than fifty pairs stateside."
The assistants sighed with envy. But Stella stared at her shoes in a daze—her first heels in six years.
"Miranda," she whispered, "who is Mr. Alistair?"
"You'll know when the time comes." Miranda's smile turned mysterious. "Now, let's complete this transformation."