Chapter 3. New York City
After four relentless hours of travel, from rural Texas by car ride to the luxurious, suffocating comfort of the private jet, they finally descended upon New York. The city stretched beneath them like a kingdom of steel and glass, yet to Roxanne it felt less like freedom and more like the tightening of invisible chains.
The very first thing Brandon does is to usher her, not to a home, not to a moment of rest, but to the salon and then a boutique whose walls gleamed with chandeliers and velvet displays.
The scent of perfume and pressed silk clung thick in the air. Rows of glittering chandeliers cast their light across polished marble floors, each reflection amplifying the sheen of glass cases lined with handbags that gleamed like trophies.
Velvet mannequins stood poised in corners, draped in gowns whose stitching whispered of Paris and Milan. Sales associates rushed to and fro at Brandon’s command, arms stacked with clothing pulled from racks bearing names Roxanne had only ever seen on billboards or glossy magazine covers: Dior, Chanel, Prada, Gucci, and Valentino.
He didn’t browse, didn’t hesitate, and didn’t even ask. With a flick of his hand, he told them to bring everything: shoes with their lacquered heels shining like obsidian, coats lined with cashmere and fox fur, and bags that bore polished metal clasps engraved with the weight of empires.
“Everything for a girl her age,” he ordered, as though he were stocking the wardrobe of a doll, not clothing his niece.
The staff obeyed without question, piling garment after garment until the counters vanished beneath branded boxes and tissue paper, as though clothing her in wealth would be enough to erase who she had been.
Roxanne said nothing. She kept her gaze lowered, her footsteps quiet, and her thoughts locked behind sealed lips. She had learned quickly that silence is safer. Whatever Brandon demanded, she obeyed, for now.
His words from the jet still echoed in her ears. He had leaned back in his seat with the air of a man accustomed to obedience, his voice steady, almost casual, as he laid out the rules that would define her existence.
“I don’t care what you do in the future,” he had said, his gaze fixed out the window at the clouds below them, “as long as you do it quietly. Our name is not to be stained. All I want is for you to become the proper heir to my fortune. You’ll be sharp. You’ll be meticulous. And once you turn eighteen, you’ll sit by my side and learn the business directly. I’ll pay you a proper salary, and if you wish to send money or gifts to your siblings, do it with what you’ve earned yourself. Never from me.”
“Yes, uncle,” she had muttered, her voice little more than a shadow in the cabin’s hum.
That was when he had turned to her, eyes hard as flint. “Call me father from this moment on,” he said, the command slicing through the air like a blade.
Roxanne’s throat had tightened. Every part of her wanted to resist, to spit the word back in his face. But she had no power. “Yes… father,” she forced out, teeth gritted behind her lips. And with that, her old life was locked away, as though buried beneath layers of silk, perfume, and diamonds she never asked for.
Then she's ushered into the salon, a place perfumed with lavender oils and warmed towels, the sound of water trickling from a stone fountain filling the quiet between soft music.
The moment she entered, attendants swarmed with professional attitude. Roxanne found herself seated in a chair that seemed to swallow her whole, the leather cool against her skin. Gentle but insistent hands tipped her chin upward, brushed her hair back, and unwrapped her from the simplicity of travel.
They cleansed her face with rich creams that smelled faintly of roses, scrubbed away the dust of the journey with exfoliants that left her skin tingling and raw, then masked her in layers of cool gel until she almost forgot her own reflection.
Her nails are trimmed, buffed, and lacquered to a shine that catches the light. Her toes received the same meticulous attention, her feet wrapped in steaming towels before being massaged with oils.
They soaked her in scented baths, kneaded away every ache in her body, and polished her until she emerged not herself, but something closer to a carefully carved statue.
The spa treatment left her skin glowing, her hair glossed and set, and her body perfumed in a fragrance she hadn’t chosen. By the time the last attendant stepped back, Roxanne hardly recognized the girl staring back in the mirror, stripped of dust, innocence, and any trace of where she had come from.
She had been cleaned, dressed, and polished like property. Roxanne's beauty in her teenage years is the kind that could never be taught, only bestowed, untouched by artifice yet arresting in its natural grace. She made the people jealous with her effortless beauty.
Her long, chestnut curls spilled like a waterfall down her shoulders and back, carrying with them the wild softness of youth and the strong poise of womanhood. The sunlight seemed to cling to each strand, catching in waves of gold and bronze, as though her very presence were meant to be noticed.
Her eyes, wide, luminous, and blue as a summer horizon, held a certain unguarded honesty, the kind that could undo even the most jaded heart. They carried the gentleness of a girl still unshaped by the cruelties of the world, yet already shadowed by a quiet depth, as if she instinctively sensed the weight her future would demand.
Her lips, full and softly tinted like rose petals, rested in that perfect balance between innocence and allure, not yet aware of their power but already dangerous in how effortlessly they could ensnare a gaze.
Draped in the simplicity of a white off-shoulder blouse, she looked more like a painting than a girl, her elegance born not of wealth or refinement, but of a raw, unpolished beauty that radiated from within.
Roxanne’s youth is not loud or ostentatious; it's the kind that lingered, the kind that made one glance back twice, haunted by the impression of her softness long after she had gone.
And Brandon, standing at the doorway with arms folded, smiled faintly, satisfied. "That's my daughter." He said and gave the employee his black card.
