The Sinclair Protocol – My Delivery Girl is a Private Military Queen

By Lea von Löwenstein

Chapter 3: Power Plays

Part 1: The Uniform

Harrods Exclusive Boutique, London

The boutique’s crystal chandeliers cast judgmental light on Liv’s delivery uniform as she stepped through the gilded doors. Two saleswomen exchanged pointed looks, their designer outfits practically radiating disapproval.

“I’m sorry,” the taller one stepped forward, voice dripping with practiced politeness, “but we’re preparing to close for a private appointment.”

“Perfect timing then,” Liv smiled, remembering how many times she’d played this exact game. “I am the appointment.”

“You?” The shorter saleswoman didn’t bother hiding her disdain. “In that… uniform?”

“Mmm,” Liv moved to a rack of evening gowns, her fingers trailing over a £12,000 Alexander McQueen. “I need a wedding dress. Something suitable for tomorrow morning.”

“Miss,” the first saleswoman’s tone could freeze champagne, “perhaps you’d be more comfortable at-“

“At a more affordable establishment?” Liv finished, her smile sharp. “How about we wait for my fiancé? He’s just outside on a call. Sebastian Blackwood? Of Blackwood Securities?”

The name drop made both women stiffen.

“Mr. Blackwood is expected,” the shorter one admitted reluctantly. “But he’s meeting his fiancée, Elena Rothsch-“

“Plans change,” Liv cut her off, picking up a Valentino gown worth more than their monthly salaries combined. “Now, about that wedding dress…”

“Perhaps we should wait for Mr. Blackwood to confirm-“

“Oh yes,” Liv’s smile turned predatory. “Let’s wait for Sebastian. I’m sure he’ll be fascinated to hear how you treated his chosen bride.”

“I think,” the taller saleswoman’s smile turned cruel, “you misunderstand your position. This isn’t some high street shop where delivery girls can play dress-up.”

Liv stood perfectly still, the £12,000 McQueen still in her hands, as more staff emerged from the back.

“Did you hear?” one whispered loudly enough to carry. “That’s the girl Marcus Thorne dumped this morning. The one from the news.”

“Oh God,” another laughed. “Trying to shop here? How… ambitious.”

“Probably thought she could snag another rich man,” the shorter saleswoman joined in. “Using Mr. Blackwood’s name, of all people.”

Liv’s fingers tightened on the silk gown, memories of this morning’s humiliation still fresh. Five years of playing small, of being invisible, and now twice in one day…

“Should we call security?” someone suggested.

“No need,” the tall saleswoman stepped closer. “Listen carefully, dear. People like you don’t belong here. Just like they don’t belong with men like Marcus Thorne or Sebastian Blackwood. Know your place.”

Those last three words – the same ones Marcus had used – hit like physical blows. But this time, something different flickered in Liv’s eyes. Something dangerous.

“My place?” she said softly, her delivery uniform suddenly seeming more like a costume than a prison. “How fascinating. Tell me, do you know who actually owns this boutique?”

“This,” the manager yanked the McQueen from Liv’s grasp, “is a £12,000 gown. Not something to be pawed at by delivery girls playing pretend.”

The boutique’s crystal lights caught Liv’s Sinclair Global signet ring – the one she’d hidden under cheap gloves for five years – as her hand fell empty to her side. For a moment, she was transported back to this morning, to Marcus’s office, to another moment of calculated humiliation.

“I suggest,” the manager continued, carefully returning the gown to its rack, “you leave before we’re forced to call security. Honestly, first Marcus Thorne, now claiming to be Sebastian Blackwood’s fiancée? Do you read too many fairy tales, dear?”

The other staff circled like sharks scenting blood, their designer heels clicking on marble floors that Liv’s father had specially imported from Italy when he’d bought the boutique last spring.

“It’s almost sad,” someone whispered. “Did you see the news? Dumped for Sophia Montgomery. Now this…”

Liv stood perfectly still, her delivery uniform feeling less like a disguise and more like armor with each passing second. Five years of hiding, of playing small, of being the perfect invisible girlfriend… ending twice in one day with people trying to “put her in her place.”

“I’ll give you one last chance,” the manager’s voice dripped condescension. “Leave now, or-“

“Or what?” Liv’s voice changed, five years of Harvard and Oxford suddenly evident in every syllable. “You’ll call security on Olivia Sinclair? In her own boutique?”

“Security!” the manager’s voice rang through the boutique. “We have a situation in the exclusive section.”

Two burly men in dark suits appeared almost instantly, their earpieces gleaming under the crystal chandeliers.

“This… person,” the manager gestured at Liv’s uniform with theatrical disgust, “is disturbing our clientele and refusing to leave.”

“Ma’am,” the larger security guard stepped forward, “I’m going to have to ask you-“

“To what?” Liv’s voice had changed completely, carrying the weight of boardrooms and billion-pound decisions. “Escort Olivia Sinclair out of her own boutique? How fascinating.”

“She’s delusional,” the manager scoffed. “First claiming to be Sebastian Blackwood’s fiancée, now pretending to be Olivia Sinclair?”

“Interesting assumption,” Liv reached slowly into her delivery bag, making the guards tense. But she only withdrew her phone, dialing with deliberate precision. “James? Yes, I’m at the Harrods boutique. It seems our staff needs a reminder about ownership structure. And perhaps…” her eyes swept over the gathered employees, “some immediate personnel changes.”

“Anyone can make a phone call,” the manager sneered, but there was a flicker of uncertainty in her eyes.

“Oh, absolutely,” Liv smiled as the boutique’s main phone started ringing. “You should answer that. I believe it’s the CEO of Harrods. Something about an emergency board meeting regarding staff conduct?”

The security guards exchanged nervous glances as the manager’s face began to pale.

Part 2: Unmasking

Sebastian’s entrance was perfectly timed – as if orchestrated by the gods of chaos themselves. He paused in the doorway, his Savile Row suit and aristocratic bearing drawing immediate attention.

“Mr. Blackwood!” the manager’s relief was palpable. “Thank goodness. This… person has been causing quite a disturbance, claiming to be-“

“My fiancée,” Sebastian finished smoothly, playing along with what he assumed was an elaborate bluff. After all, a delivery girl with market knowledge was one thing, but Olivia Sinclair? Impossible.

“But sir,” the shorter saleswoman protested, “surely you’re engaged to Elena Rothsch-“

“Plans change,” he moved to Liv’s side, his hand settling possessively on her lower back. “Though I must say, darling, you’re full of surprises.”

“You have no idea,” Liv’s smile held secrets that made him slightly nervous.

“Sir,” the manager tried again, “this woman was just on the news – she’s Marcus Thorne’s ex-fiancée, a mere delivery-“

“Who happens to be my chosen bride,” Sebastian’s voice turned sharp. “Unless you’d prefer to explain to my father why Blackwood Securities is taking its considerable business elsewhere?”

“But she…”

“She,” Sebastian squeezed Liv’s waist gently, still convinced she was an unusually clever impostor, “needs a wedding dress. For tomorrow. Money is no object.”

“Of course, Mr. Blackwood,” the manager’s tone changed instantly.

“Though I have to admit,” he murmured in Liv’s ear, “you play this game dangerously well. Almost had me believing you were actually Olivia Sinclair for a moment there.”

“Did you?” Liv’s eyes danced with something that made his strategic mind tingle with warning. “How fascinating.”

The staff’s transformation was immediate but grudging. Like well-trained servants forced to serve someone they considered beneath them.

“Perhaps,” the manager’s smile was brittle, “madam would like to try our new collection? Though the prices are quite… substantial.”

“Oh, don’t worry about prices,” Sebastian smirked, clearly enjoying the theater of it all. “Show us your best.”

The saleswomen began pulling gowns, each one more expensive than the last. A collection of haute couture pieces that could fund a small company.

“This one,” the shorter woman held up a simple white dress, “might be more… appropriate for madam’s station.”

“How kind,” Liv’s smile could cut glass. “But I was thinking something more…” she walked directly to a hidden rack, pulling out a gown that made the staff gasp. “This one.”

“That’s…” the manager stuttered, “that’s the new Yto Gonzaga. It’s not even officially released yet. We only have it because-“

“Because Olivia Sinclair pre-ordered it?” Liv finished innocently. “What size is it, by the way?”

“UK 8,” Sebastian noted, still playing along but watching her with increasing curiosity. “Exactly your size, apparently.”

“What a coincidence,” Liv’s eyes danced. “Almost as if it was made for me.”

The staff exchanged nervous glances as Liv headed for the fitting room, the exclusive Gonzaga in her arms.

“Quite the performance,” Sebastian murmured, still convinced she was an elaborate fraud. “Though I have to wonder how far you’ll take this game.”

“Oh, Sebastian,” she paused at the fitting room door. “This isn’t a game. This is just the beginning.”

When Liv emerged from the fitting room, even the staff’s practiced disdain faltered. The Yto Gonzaga creation seemed to have been poured onto her frame, every crystal, every hand-stitched detail falling exactly where it should.

“Impossible,” the manager whispered. “That dress… it was custom measured for…”

“For?” Liv’s smile was serene as she turned before the three-way mirror, the gown catching light like liquid diamonds.

Sebastian stood frozen, his certainty about her identity wavering for the first time. The delivery uniform had hidden… everything. But now, watching her move in a dress that cost more than most London flats, her posture screamed old money, finishing schools, and power.

“The measurements,” the shorter saleswoman flipped through her tablet frantically. “They were taken in Manila last month for Ms. Sin-“

“For whom?” Liv interrupted smoothly, adjusting the dress’s intricate back with practiced ease. “Do tell everyone who this dress was made for.”

The staff exchanged panicked looks as Sebastian moved closer, his strategic mind racing. A delivery girl wouldn’t know how to carry a Yto Gonzaga. Wouldn’t know the exact placement of each crystal, wouldn’t adjust the complicated back closure without help…

“Darling,” Liv turned to him, her smile holding secrets, “what do you think? Suitable for a revenge wedding?”

“Who are you?” he whispered, really looking at her for the first time.

“Someone who knows exactly how this dress should fit,” she answered cryptically. “After all… I designed it with Yto myself.”

“Well,” the manager recovered first, laughing sharply. “Designed it with Yto herself? Really, this delusion has gone far enough-“

“The dress is clearly a perfect fit by pure chance,” another saleswoman joined in. “Just like her ‘ownership’ of the boutique.”

Sebastian watched the scene unfold, noting how Liv’s posture shifted subtly. Even in the perfectly fitted Gonzaga, she seemed to retreat slightly into her delivery girl role, letting them dig their own graves.

“Quite the imagination,” the manager continued. “Next she’ll tell us she has tea with the Queen-“

“What is going on here?”

The new voice cut through the laughter like a blade. The mall manager, Charles Whitmore, stood in the doorway, his face ashen.

“Mr. Whitmore,” the boutique manager straightened. “We were just dealing with an impostor who-“

“Who happens to be Olivia Sinclair,” Whitmore’s voice shook. “The majority shareholder of not just this boutique, but the entire Harrods group.”

The laughter died instantly.

“But… but she’s a delivery girl,” someone whispered. “She was on the news this morning…”

“And you’re all fired,” Whitmore announced flatly. “Effective immediately. Clear out your lockers and leave your badges at security.”

“You can’t-“

“Actually,” Liv spoke softly, adjusting the Gonzaga’s crystal detail, “he can. And just did. Sebastian, darling? Shall we take the dress? I believe we have a wedding to plan.”

“Of course,” Sebastian replied, his voice faint as the truth began to dawn. “Though I’m starting to think I might be the one who’s in over his head.”

Part 3: Checkmate

“Before we leave,” Liv adjusted the Gonzaga one final time, watching the fired staff gather their belongings, “there’s something you should know about tomorrow’s wedding, Sebastian.”

“You mean besides the fact that I’m apparently marrying someone who can get an entire boutique staff fired with one phone call?” He helped her with the dress’s intricate back closure.

“Marcus and Sophia’s ceremony,” her smile turned predatory. “St. Paul’s Cathedral. Noon.”

“The same time as the Tokyo merger signing,” Sebastian noted, then froze. “Wait. You want to…”

“Crash it?” Liv’s eyes glittered. “Oh no, darling. I want to do something much worse.”

“Which is?”

“I want to take everything,” she turned to face him, the Gonzaga making her look like vengeance incarnate. “The merger, the ceremony, the empire he thinks he built. And I want to do it with you.”

“With me?” Sebastian’s strategic mind raced. “Because I’m a Blackwood?”

“Because you’re exactly what I need,” she reached up to straighten his tie. “A CEO who understands power plays, who needs to escape an arranged marriage, and who’s just reckless enough to marry a delivery girl without asking too many questions.”

“And if you’re not really Olivia Sinclair?”

“Then you’ve married someone clever enough to get an entire boutique staff fired while wearing a delivery uniform,” she smiled. “Either way… interested?”

“In crashing London’s wedding of the year? While stealing a billion-pound merger?” His laugh held genuine admiration. “Darling, I think this might be the beginning of a beautiful partnership.”

The ancient organ’s notes soared through St. Paul’s vaulted ceiling as Sophia Montgomery glided down the aisle, her dress a testament to old money elegance. Marcus stood at the altar, his expression radiating the same superiority he’d shown when dismissing his “delivery girl” fiancée just yesterday.

Sebastian and Liv observed from their hidden position near the clergy entrance, her Yto Gonzaga a stark contrast to yesterday’s uniform.

“Having second thoughts?” Sebastian whispered, watching her face for any trace of the crying woman from the pub.

“About ruining his perfect day?” Liv’s smile held secrets. “Not a single one.”

The Archbishop of Canterbury himself presided – a favor from one of Marcus’s new connections. The pews overflowed with London’s elite: banking dynasties, old money families, and social climbers eager to witness the union of the season.

“Dearly beloved,” the Archbishop’s voice carried through the cathedral, “we are gathered here today…”

“You know,” Liv murmured, “he told me once that love was for little people. That I should know my place.”

“And what place is that?” Sebastian asked, still uncertain if she was really Olivia Sinclair but increasingly fascinated by whatever she was planning.

“Oh darling,” her smile turned dangerous as the Archbishop reached the crucial moment. “We’re about to show everyone exactly what my place is.”

“If anyone knows any reason why these two should not be joined in holy matrimony…”

“Ready to scandalize London society?” Liv’s hand found his in the shadows.

“With a delivery girl?” Sebastian matched her smile. “Always.”

Just as the Archbishop opened his mouth to continue, a young clergy assistant came running down the side aisle, his formal robes fluttering in most undignified haste. The organ music faltered as he whispered urgently in the Archbishop’s ear.

The Archbishop’s face shifted from confusion to understanding. He cleared his throat, looking at the gathered elite of London society.

“I… I apologize for this most unusual situation, but there appears to be a change in today’s ceremony schedule.”

Marcus’s triumphant smile froze. “Your Grace?”

“The Cathedral has received a priority ceremonial request,” the Archbishop’s voice carried clear authority. “This time slot has been… reassigned to another couple.”

The cathedral erupted in whispers as Sophia’s perfect composure cracked. Victoria Montgomery, seated in the front row, clutched her mother’s arm in horror.

“Reassigned?” Marcus’s voice carried through the sudden silence, all pretense of humility gone. “You can’t just reassign St. Paul’s Cathedral!”

From their hidden position, Sebastian felt Liv’s hand tighten on his arm. Her phone screen glowed softly in the shadows, displaying a single message:

“Cathedral confirmed. Your ceremony starts in 30 minutes. – James”

“Shall we go prepare?” Sebastian whispered.

“Not yet,” Liv’s smile was pure poison as she watched Marcus’s world begin to crumble. “Let them wonder who could possibly have more influence than Marcus Thorne.”

“This is outrageous!” Marcus’s voice boomed through the cathedral. “Do you have any idea who I am? Who my bride’s family is?”

The Montgomery clan rose in unified indignation, their old money influence radiating through the pews. Sophia stood frozen at the altar, her perfect wedding transforming into a social nightmare.

“The Cathedral’s decision is final,” the Archbishop stated firmly. “The new couple has… priority status.”

“Priority?” Marcus laughed incredulously. “Over the Thorne-Montgomery wedding? Over my family’s donations? Who could possibly-“

His words died as the clergy entrance doors opened.

Sebastian Blackwood emerged first, his morning suit impeccable, his aristocratic bearing commanding immediate attention. Lord Blackwood’s gasp echoed through the sudden silence – his rebellious son, who’d refused Elena Rothschild just yesterday.

But it was Sebastian’s companion who caused Marcus’s face to drain of all color.

Olivia Sinclair glided forward in her Yto Gonzaga creation, every crystal catching light like vengeful stars. Gone was any trace of the delivery girl uniform. In its place stood the heiress to Sinclair Global, her smile as sharp as a blade.

“Marcus, darling,” her voice carried perfectly through the stunned silence. “Surprised to see me? Or just surprised to see me in my real clothes?”