Chapter 7: The Makeover Montage

The boutique doesn’t have a name on the door. That’s how I know I don’t belong here. Adrian holds the door open. I step into a space that looks more like an art gallery than a clothing store. White walls. Floating glass shelves. Dresses displayed like sculptures. A woman glides toward us, elegant in all black. Her smile doesn’t reach her eyes when they land on me. “Mr. Knight.” She air kisses his cheeks. “Always a pleasure.” “Isabelle.” Adrian’s hand settles on my back. “This is Zara Bennett. She needs a wardrobe for the season.” Isabelle’s gaze sweeps over me. Assessing. Finding me wanting. “Of course.” Her smile sharpens. “We’ll start with the basics and work our way up.” The basics. Like I’m a charity case. Adrian must sense my tension because his hand presses slightly firmer against my back. A silent message: breathe. “I’ll leave you to it,” he says. “I have calls to make.” He disappears into a seating area with leather chairs and a coffee table covered in fashion magazines I’ve never heard of. Leaves me alone with Isabelle and her judging eyes. “This way, Ms. Bennett.” She leads me to a dressing room bigger than my bedroom. Floor to ceiling mirrors. A velvet settee. “Size?” Isabelle pulls out a tablet. “Six.” “And your budget?” I think about my savings. “I don’t know. What’s reasonable?” “For Mr. Knight’s companion? Fifteen to twenty thousand for a seasonal wardrobe.” I nearly choke. “Thousand? Dollars?” “Unless you prefer euros.” Her expression doesn’t change. “Though the exchange rate is less favorable currently.” Twenty thousand dollars. For clothes. For one season. I could live for a year on that. “Let’s start with one outfit,” I manage. “For Friday.” Isabelle’s smile turns pitying. “One outfit won’t be sufficient, Ms. Bennett. You’ll need multiple gala appropriate dresses, cocktail attire, business casual for daytime events, and accessories to coordinate.” “One outfit,” I repeat firmly. “For now.” She sighs like I’m making her life difficult and disappears into the racks. I sink onto the settee and pull out my phone. Me: “Your boutique friend thinks I need $20k worth of clothes.” Adrian: “That sounds right for six months of events.” Me: “I’m not spending that kind of money.” Adrian: “You’re not. I am. It’s in the contract. Section 8C.” He’s technically right. But it makes my skin crawl. Isabelle returns with dresses, each one beautiful and intimidating. Silks and satins in jewel tones. “Try these.” I take them into the dressing room and stare at myself in the mirror. This is for my career, I remind myself. For Morrison. This is business. The first dress is emerald green, off the shoulder, stunning. I look like someone who belongs at galas. I look like someone who isn’t me. “Let me see,” Isabelle calls. I step out. She circles me, tugging at fabric. “It’s beautiful,” I admit. “It’s adequate.” She pulls another dress. “Try this one.” Three dresses later, I’m exhausted. They’re all gorgeous, but nothing feels right. “The navy,” Isabelle decides. “It photographs well and won’t compete with Mr. Knight’s traditional black tie.” Won’t compete. Like I’m an accessory. “How much?” I ask. “Thirty five hundred.” My stomach drops. “For one dress?” “It’s Marchesa. The price is quite reasonable.” She says it like I should know what Marchesa means. Like everyone spends thirty five hundred dollars on a single dress. I think about my savings. About the Morrison payment I’ll never receive. About the clients who aren’t calling. I can’t do this. “I need a minute,” I say, stepping back into the dressing room. I change back into my jeans and sweater with shaking hands. Pull out my phone. Me: “I can’t let you pay for this.” Adrian: “Why not?” Me: “Because it’s too much. Because I feel like I’m being bought. Because this isn’t who I am.” Three dots appear. Disappear. Appear again. Adrian: “Come to the seating area.” I find him in a leather chair, laptop closed. He stands when he sees me. “You didn’t pick anything,” he observes. “I can’t afford this place.” “I can.” “That’s not the point.” I cross my arms. “I don’t want to owe you.” “This isn’t about owing. It’s about the job.” “This is my life.” I gesture around us. “I’m buying one dress. One. And I’m paying for it myself. If that’s not good enough, then maybe I’m not good enough for this contract.” Silence. Adrian studies me. Then, incredibly, he smiles. A real smile. “Okay.” I blink. “Okay?” “Buy your own dress. Wear what makes you comfortable.” He picks up his coat. “But Zara?” “What?” “The next time you tell me I’m being an ass about something, don’t wait until you’re ready to walk away. Just tell me.” Something warm unfurls in my chest. “You were being an ass?” “Apparently.” He heads for the door, then pauses. “For what it’s worth, you don’t need an expensive dress to look like you belong. You already do.” He leaves before I can respond. I turn to find Isabelle watching me with an expression I can’t quite read. “Well,” she says. “That was unexpected.” “What was?” “I’ve dressed a lot of Mr. Knight’s… companions over the years. For business functions, you understand.” She pulls out a different dress. Simpler. Elegant. “Not one of them ever told him no.” She hands me a navy dress, different from the Marchesa. Still beautiful, but understated. Classic. “This one is eight hundred,” Isabelle says. “And between you and me, you’ll look better in it than anything else we have.” I take the dress. “Thank you.” “Don’t thank me yet. You still have to survive Friday night.” Her expression turns knowing. “Vanessa Hale will be there. She always is.” My blood chills. “You know Vanessa?” “Everyone knows Vanessa.” Isabelle leans in conspiratorially. “And everyone knows she doesn’t like to lose. Especially not to someone like you.” “Someone like me?” “Someone real.” She straightens. “Try on the dress. I think you’ll be pleased.” I do. It fits perfectly. Makes me look polished and professional without feeling like a costume. I buy it with my credit card, wincing at the charge but feeling something like pride. Adrian’s waiting outside, leaning against his car. “Did you find something?” he asks. “I did.” “Good.” He opens the car door. “And Zara? That thing you said about not being good enough? You’re wrong.” I slide into the car, my dress in a garment bag that probably costs more than my usual shopping bags. As we pull away from the boutique, my phone buzzes. Unknown: “Cute boutique. I prefer the one on Madison myself. See you Friday, darling. I’ve picked out something special just for the occasion. - V” She was watching. The whole time. Vanessa knows exactly where we were. What we were doing. And she’s coming for me.