CHAPTER FIVE #3
“Accompany me!” Sebastian commands. “Time is evaporating, and we have mountains to scale!
We’re given no choice but to follow him into… The Room.
Sweet baby RuPaul , this isn’t a dressing room—it’s a palace!
Crystal chandeliers dangle from the sky-high ceiling with white carpet so plush, my boots sink in with every step.
There’s a champagne bar sparkling in the corner.
Empty clothing racks line the walls, and a circular platform with a tri-fold mirror setup stands in the center, ready to showcase every possible angle of my self-loathing.
“Let us begin the transformation. But first, Mr. Sterling, is she allergic to anything? And by that, I mean fabrics, not quality and taste.”
“Just judgment and pretentious assholes,” I shoot back. “Oh, and polyester. My nipples aren’t a fan.”
“How very… specific.” Sebastian lifts his iPad and jots something down.
Bryce clears his throat. “She’ll need options for daytime excursions, poolside attire, and… sleepwear.”
“B, you know my thoughts on sleeping in the nu—” I start.
“And,” Bryce cuts me off, “several appropriate dinner options for Casa Cashmere.”
Sebastian, who’s been scribbling notes with manic intensity, freezes mid-swipe. “Casa Cashmere?” He whispers the name like a sacred incantation.
His head whips between Bryce and me as his eyes bulge with horror, and he clutches his iPad to his chest.
“You bring me THIS—” he gestures at me as if I’m a contagious disease “—for CASA CASHMERE? The SANCTUARY of STYLE? The EPICENTER of ELEGANCE? Where Muffy Von Cashmere herself holds court, passing judgment on the fashion elite?”
“Well, she sounds like an absolute peach,” I say dryly.
“It is beyond impossible! The style chasm is too vast! It would be kinder to send her naked.”
“If anyone can make her Casa Cashmere-ready, it’s you,” Bryce says smoothly. “And I’ll increase your commission by ten percent for the challenge.”
“It is true. Sebastian Bellini has never encountered a fashion crisis he couldn’t reinvent. I embrace this test!”
He snaps his fingers twice. On cue, a dozen women materialize from hidden panels in the walls. Long limbs, glossy hair, cheekbones that could cut a diamond—all in sleek black outfits and stilettos that make no sound when they walk. They don’t blink. I’m not sure they even breathe.
Sebastian addresses them. “Today we transform this fashion catastrophe from a rebellious trash-dwelling troll… into a resplendent Rivera goddess!”
With a wild gleam in his eye, Sebastian is now a commander pacing before battle.
“I require Chanel—the good pieces, not the tourist collection! GUCCI—but only ones without those nightmarish logos! Valentino. Oscar de la Renta. No Prada. No Dior. Too many florals this season, and God knows her personality brings enough unsolicited color to any outfit!”
The model-assistants all nod in unison .
“And I want accessories. Bring me Cartier, Tiffany, something aggressive. Something that warns the other guests. Something that says: I bite. ”
He snaps again. They vanish.
Thirty excruciating minutes and several unwanted measurements later—including my left ankle, which Sebastian insists is a crime against symmetry—I’m stuffed into a cream Chanel tweed suit that feels like a suffocating straightjacket.
“Well?” I attempt a graceful twirl, but my legs are practically zip-tied together. I wobble on heels thinner than medical needles. “Do I look the part? Like I marry for money and can fake climaxes with enthusiasm?”
“The tragedy is unbearable,” he deadpans. “This woman is the CEO of a startup that sells overpriced candles smelling of peppermint and regret.” He snaps twice. “Next!”
I’m whisked straight to the dressing room and crammed into something infinitely worse—a pastel pink romper with satin bows that must have been designed by a five-year-old going through her princess phase.
“Whoever designed this genuinely hates women,” I announce, yanking at the hem to dislodge the perpetual camel toe. “Why does this scream costume for a grown man with a doll fetish ?”
Sebastian’s jaw drops in horror, and all the color drains from his face so fast, I briefly wonder if he’s having a stroke.
“DESTROY that ABERRATION! Burn it and scatter the ashes across different continents so it can never reassemble!”
“We do have a schedule to keep,” Bryce reminds him with controlled authority. “The jet is waiting, and there’s a welcome dinner to attend. ”
“This creature descended upon us with the fashion sense of a Walmart parking lot at three a.m., and I am tasked with transforming her into Casa Cashmere-worthy splendor in a few hours!” Sebastian exhales dramatically.
“TRUST the PROCESS! I have never failed, and I will not blemish my legacy on this day!”
I take advantage of their back-and-forth to scratch furiously at my inner thigh, where the romper has left an angry red welt.
An assistant tiptoes over with something clutched between two fingers as though she’s carrying nuclear waste.
It’s… my bra.
“Oh sweet Dior above, what is this monstrosity? My eyes! They’re melting.”
“It’s fine. It does the thankless job of holding up my boobs.”
He snaps, ignoring me. “La Perla! One of EVERYTHING! Bras, panties, slips, garters, silk, lace, mesh, divine intervention—GO! Fetch me a goddamn miracle, stat!”
I glance at Bryce, expecting him to be mortified by this intimate garment discussion, but he appears absorbed in his phone, thumb scrolling.
Then, without looking up, he says, “Include red.”
The blush that starts at my hairline travels south with alarming speed.
Bryce has opinions about my underwear?
“Excellent suggestion, Mr. Sterling. Back into the wardrobe chamber, Miss Brinkman!”
I trudge into the fitting room, where they force a nightmare of a dress over my head. When I see it, my breath catches—for all the wrong reasons. It’s loud, yellow, ruffled, and did I mention loud ?
One shoulder. Eight million ruffles. So much satin that it actually makes swish-swish noises.
“No! CATASTROPHIC! Escape while you can!
“I’m done!” swish-swish-swish “Where’s my taser?”
“Your rage will not shield you from your poor style choices.”
I’m ushered away too soon—robbed of my chance to unleash a decent comeback.
But then I see it. Hanging apart from the rejects is a long, sleek, crimson halter dress that oozes liquid sex. I put it on, adjust the straps, and take a breath.
The neckline is high, elegant, and the cutouts offer an enticing glimpse of side boob. The back is completely open, swooping low and giving a peek of my hip tattoo. I step out, and the entire room goes silent.
“Call VOGUE! Inform the internet that Sebastian Bellini has triumphed again with his unparalleled genius!”
My gaze stays locked on Bryce as his sweeps up my body, slow and deliberate, sending a shiver down my spine. For a breath, his mask slips, and I catch a flash of something primal woven into his stare before he reins it back in.
“Yes, we’ll take that one,” he says, his voice a touch deeper than usual. Then, as if nothing happened, he returns to his phone.
But that tap-tap-tap of his finger against his thigh tells a different story.
After the red dress breakthrough, everything Sebastian puts me in just works —white rompers, ivory power suits, champagne silk tunics with wide-leg trousers that somehow make comfortable pass as couture .
We run out of time before I can try on the swimwear, lingerie, and pajamas, but Sebastian insists: “I have cracked the code of your essence! The collection I have picked will be transcendent!”
I’m in front of the mirror wearing a cream-colored sleeveless vest with matching wide-legged pants and leather sandals. I hardly recognize myself.
I look… elevated.
Bryce is across the room, hovering by the jewelry tray and treating it like a charcuterie board. He casually points at a piece.
Then our eyes meet in the mirror, and something electric passes between us—a current so strong, I’m surprised the lights don’t flicker. He walks over, holding a simple Tiffany solitaire diamond pendant.
“This goes perfectly with that outfit,” he says, “May I put it on?”
My fingers fumble as I gather my hair, lifting it away from my neck. Bryce steps behind me, his knuckles grazing my skin and lingering longer than necessary as he fastens the clasp. My entire body is one giant goosebump.
“There,” he murmurs, his breath warm against my ear. “See?”
I let my hair fall back down and stare at our reflection—a snapshot of possibility. Of what could be, if we both lived in this world. If I were someone who belonged in clothes like these. If he were someone who would choose a girl like me.
Sebastian claps his hands. “Our guests depart for Casa Cashmere in seven short minutes!”
I spin around, breaking Bryce’s gaze. “Wait! Where are the items I asked for?”
Sebastian’s face contorts like he’s sucking on a lemon dipped in pickle juice.
“They are in there. ” He points to a black shopping bag tucked discreetly behind a chair.
“But they are HIDEOUS! So TERRIBLE! I cannot believe that Versace even makes something so GROTESQUE! Do not tell anyone that I styled those… outfits. I will deny it until my dying breath!”
Sebastian does a slow, theatrical scan as though he’s admiring his own reflection. “There she IS. My masterpiece! You walked in a snarling little street creature. Now look at you. The tattooed butterfly has emerged from her clearance-rack cocoon. You are Casa Cashmere ready!”
“I’ll never forget you, Sebastian,” I deadpan. “But God knows I’ll try.”
We’re walking to the front doors when Bryce nods toward the black bag dangling in my hand. “What did you get from Sebastian?”
I can’t help the wicked grin that spreads across my face. “It’s for our agreement. If I have to, so do you.”
We step out onto Rodeo Drive, and something strange happens—or rather, doesn’t happen. No one gives me side-eye. No security guards monitor my movements. No salespeople size me up.
In my cream linen ensemble with a diamond sparkling at my neck and Bryce Sterling’s arm hooked with mine, I’ve somehow become… immune to judgment.
Don’t get used to this. It’s temporary.
A costume change. A week-long masquerade.
The second this trip ends, I go back to my life, dealing with my usual crap. Back to the real world, where Bryce doesn’t lavish me with attention and gifts.
Don’t let yourself be fooled by the fantasy, Petra. You don’t belong to him.