Isla's POV
I woke up in Dante's penthouse the morning after signing that napkin, half-convinced I'd dreamed the whole thing.
Then I saw the signed cocktail napkin on the nightstand—wrinkled, slightly stained with whiskey, but very real. Our contract.
My phone buzzed. A text from Dante: Meet me downstairs in 30 minutes. Wear something comfortable. We're going shopping.
I threw on jeans and a sweater—one of the few outfits I'd salvaged from Marcus's penthouse. When I looked in the mirror, I saw the old Isla. Small. Forgettable.
Downstairs, Dante waited by a black car, looking perfect in casual clothes that probably cost more than my entire wardrobe.
"Ready?" he asked.
"For what exactly?"
"Your transformation." He opened the car door. "You can't take down your enemies looking like a victim. We need to turn you into a weapon."
The car drove us to a private boutique in SoHo—the kind with no prices on anything.
A woman with perfect silver hair greeted us. "Mr. Salvatore! Right on time. And this must be Isla."
"Isla, meet Claire. She's going to handle your wardrobe." Dante checked his watch. "Claire, make her unforgettable."
He disappeared into a back room, leaving me with Claire and three assistants.
"Alright, darling," Claire said, circling me like a hawk. "Let's see what we're working with."
She took my measurements while the assistants made notes.
"Good bone structure. Beautiful eyes." Claire tilted her head. "You've been hiding yourself. Baggy clothes, neutral colors, trying not to be seen. That stops today."
"I wasn't trying to hide—"
"Yes, you were. Women like your stepsister shine bright to make others feel dim. You dimmed yourself trying to survive." Claire snapped her fingers. "No more. We're going to make you shine so bright she'll need sunglasses."
Despite myself, I smiled.
For the next two hours, Claire's team worked like a military operation. Dress after dress, suit after suit. Things I'd never normally wear—bold colors, sharp cuts, powerful silhouettes.
"Try this," Claire said, handing me a deep emerald suit jacket.
I put it on. The fit was perfect. The color made my eyes pop. I looked important.
More clothes appeared. A red dress that hugged every curve. Black power suits. Casual outfits that somehow still screamed expensive.
"I can't afford any of this," I said quietly.
"Mr. Salvatore's account. Your job is to look like you belong in his world."
By the end, we had fifteen outfits, six pairs of shoes, and accessories I couldn't name.
"Next stop," Claire announced. "Hair."
The stylist, Marco, took one look at my honey-blonde hair and gasped.
"Who cut this? A blind person with garden shears?"
"I did it myself. To save money."
"Tragic. Sit." He spun me toward the mirror. "Tell me, Isla. Who do you want to be?"
The old Isla was gone—she died at that engagement party. The new Isla... who was she?
"Someone people can't ignore," I said finally. "Someone powerful."
Marco grinned. "I can work with that."
Scissors flashed. Hair fell. After the cut came highlights, lowlights, balayage.
Two hours later, Marco spun my chair around.
"Look now."
The woman in the mirror wasn't me. Couldn't be me.
My hair fell in perfect waves, the blonde richer and more dimensional. The cut framed my face, making my cheekbones sharper, my eyes bigger. I looked sophisticated. Expensive. Powerful.
"Oh my god," I whispered.
"Exactly." Marco looked smug. "You're welcome."
Next was makeup. A woman named Petra studied my face like an artist examining a canvas.
"I'm going to teach you how to do this yourself. Pay attention."
She walked me through everything. Foundation. Contouring. How to make my eyes look bigger, sharper. The perfect red lipstick that made me look dangerous.
"Makeup isn't about hiding," Petra explained. "It's about showing people what you want them to see. Strength. Confidence."
By the time she finished, I barely recognized myself. The woman in the mirror looked like she belonged on magazine covers.
"Dante's going to lose his mind," Petra said, grinning.
Back at the boutique, Claire had laid out the emerald suit with a silk blouse and heels that made my legs look miles long.
"Put it on," she ordered. "The full transformation."
When I stepped out, everyone went quiet.
Claire nodded in approval. "Look in the full-length mirror."
The woman looking back at me was a stranger. Perfect hair. Perfect makeup. Perfect clothes. She looked powerful, confident, untouchable.
She looked like someone Victoria would be jealous of.
She looked like someone Marcus would regret losing.
"I don't look like me," I whispered.
"You look like the you that was always there," Claire said. "We just brought her to the surface."
Dante emerged from the back room, phone in hand. He glanced up at me and stopped mid-sentence.
"I'll call you back," he said, hanging up.
He stared at me. Really stared. His gray eyes swept from my heels to my hair and back again.
"Well?" I asked nervously. "Is it too much?"
"It's perfect." His voice was rougher than usual. "You look dangerous."
He circled me slowly. "They won't know what hit them."
"You think this will work?"
"I think when Victoria sees you looking like this, on my arm, she's going to lose her mind." He smiled that shark smile. "When Marcus sees what he gave up, he's going to regret every decision he ever made."
"Good," I said, surprised by how much I meant it.
"There's one more thing." Dante pulled a small box from his pocket. "You need a ring. A real one."
Inside was a diamond ring so beautiful it took my breath away. Not huge and flashy like Marcus's ring. This was elegant, sophisticated. Perfect.
"Dante, I can't—"
"You can. You will." He took my hand. "We're making this look real, remember?"
He slipped the ring on my finger. It fit perfectly.
"How did you know my size?"
"I know a lot of things." He didn't step back. We stood close, the air between us electric. "This is your armor now. The clothes, the hair, the ring. Everything that makes them see you as someone they can't dismiss anymore."
"What if I can't pull it off?"
"You will. You know why?" He lifted my chin, forcing me to meet his eyes. "Because this isn't fake. This power, this strength—it was always inside you. We just gave you permission to show it."
I looked at our reflection in the mirror. We looked like we belonged together. Like we could take on the world.
"What's next?" I asked.
"Tomorrow, we announce our engagement." He checked his watch. "But tonight, we celebrate. Dinner at Nobu. Very public. Very visible."
"More performing."
"More winning." He offered his arm. "Ready to show Manhattan the new Isla Monroe?"
I took his arm, catching our reflection one more time. The old Isla was gone. This new version—strong, sharp, powerful—she was ready to fight.
"Actually," I said, looking at the ring on my finger. "It's Isla Salvatore now. Or it will be soon."
Dante's smile turned genuine. "That's the spirit. Come on, Mrs. Salvatore. Let's go make them all regret the day they tried to break you."
Dinner at Nobu was everything Dante promised. We sat at the best table. Phones appeared the moment we walked in.
"They're already posting about us," Dante said. "The internet is exploding with theories."
"Let me guess. Gold-digger theories?"
"Some. But mostly people are saying you look amazing." He showed me his screen. "You're trending."
Something warm bloomed in my chest. Maybe, just maybe, I was taking back control of my story.
"Thank you. For today. For all of this."
"Don't thank me yet. This is just the beginning." He raised his wine glass. "To transformations."
I clinked my glass against his. "To revenge."
Tomorrow, the world would know I belonged to Dante Salvatore.
And my enemies would learn what happens when you try to break the wrong woman.
The game was just beginning.
And this time, I was playing to win.