6. Dusty
DUSTY
The sleek woman with the impeccable posture studies me like I'm a half-baked croissant that somehow made it into a display case. Vivian Cho. Even her name sounds expensive.
"Shoulders back." Her cool fingers press against my spine, forcing me upright. "A woman of refinement doesn't slouch, Augusta."
I flinch at my full name. Nobody calls me that except social workers and cops.
"Dusty," I mumble, then bite my lip when her perfectly arched eyebrow rises.
"We speak clearly and project confidence." She demonstrates, her red lips forming each word with precision. "Try again."
"My name's Dusty." The words come out stronger, but my voice still wavers at the end.
"Better." She circles me, her heels clicking against the marble floor. "Though we'll need to work on your diction. Drop the street affectations. You're not hustling corners anymore."
Heat floods my cheeks. She's not wrong, but hearing it stated so matter-of-factly stings worse than Damian's whip did.
"Now, walk to the window and back. Let me see your gait."
I take three steps before her sharp intake of breath stops me.
"No, no, no." She positions herself beside me, her hand hovering near my elbow. "You shuffle like you're trying to disappear. Head up, chin level, steps measured and deliberate. Imagine a string pulling you skyward from the crown of your head."
I try again. My legs feel wooden, uncooperative.
"You're thinking too hard." A hint of warmth enters her voice. "Movement should flow naturally, but with intention. Watch."
She glides across the room, her body a study in controlled grace. Everything about her screams refinement—the way her hands float at her sides, how her hips shift with each step, the confident set of her jaw.
I attempt to mirror her. My oversized sweater catches on my hip, bunching awkwardly. These aren't even my clothes—Damian gave them to me this morning, soft cotton that smells like expensive laundry detergent instead of cigarette smoke and desperation.
"Again."
My feet tangle. I stumble, catching myself against the window frame.
"I can't do this." The admission tears from my throat. "I don't belong in fancy ballrooms or corporate whatever-the-hell. I'm a thief who got caught."
"You're a young woman learning skills she was never taught." Vivian's expression softens fractionally. "That's not a character flaw, Augusta. That's circumstance."
She adjusts my posture with gentle pressure—shoulders back, spine straight, chin up.
"Now, we'll work on your handshake. No one respects a limp fish grip." She extends her hand, waiting.
I grasp it, squeezing hard like I'm trying to prove something.
"Firm, not crushing." She extracts her fingers, a small smile playing at her lips. "You're not intimidating a rival gang member. Eye contact, confident grip, two pumps, release."
We practice until my palm sweats and my smile feels like cracked plaster.
"Your hair." She circles behind me, gathering the tangled honey-blonde waves. "When was your last proper cut?"
"Never had one." The admission makes me feel like the street rat my friends called me. "Just... whenever I could grab scissors."
A soft hum escapes her throat—not judgment, just consideration.
"We'll fix that. And your nails—" She lifts my hand, examining the ragged cuticles and dirt permanently embedded beneath what's left of my nails. "Manicure, obviously. Your skin's dehydrated, so we'll establish a proper routine."
My head spins with everything she's cataloging, every flaw she's noting with clinical efficiency.
"This is impossible," I whisper.
"Nothing worthwhile is easy." She meets my gaze in the mirror's reflection. "But you have two days to transform into someone who won't embarrass Mr. Kensington at his corporate gala."
Two days.
I nibble my lower lip, tasting blood and fear.
"We'll start with the salon." Vivian's tone shifts to brisk efficiency as she checks her phone. "I know someone who can salvage this situation. Then shopping—you need an entire wardrobe, not just a gala dress."
My stomach drops. "I don't have money for?—"
"Mr. Kensington has already arranged everything." She waves away my protest, already texting someone. "Your job is to cooperate and absorb as much as possible in forty-eight hours."
The casual mention of Damian spending money on me makes my chest tight. Back on the streets, accepting anything meant owing someone. Debts get collected in ways that leave marks.
But Damian's different. Isn't he?
"My appointment's in twenty minutes." Vivian collects her structured handbag, gesturing toward the door. "We'll discuss proper posture and conversation etiquette in the car."
I follow her out, my borrowed clothes suddenly feeling even more ill-fitting. Through the windows, I catch sight of the sleek black town car waiting.
"Come along, Augusta." She pauses at the threshold. "And for heaven's sake, stop hunching. You're not sneaking through alleys anymore."
I straighten my spine, forcing my shoulders back.
Two days to become the woman I've always wanted to be.
The salon chair swallows me whole, soft leather creaking as I sink into it. Vivian exchanges rapid-fire instructions with a stylist whose purple-streaked hair and multiple piercings somehow make me feel less out of place.
"Don't touch." The stylist—Marcus, according to his nametag—swats my hand away from my tangled ends. "Jesus, what did you do to this? Cut it with garden shears?"
Heat floods my cheeks. "Something like that."
He tsks, running expert fingers through the mess. "Well, we're working miracles today. Vivian says you need to look like money by Friday."
The scissors whisper against my hair, each snip releasing years of neglect. Chunks of dull, damaged strands fall around the chair like shed skin. I watch in the mirror as Marcus shapes and layers, his movements confident and precise.
"Close your eyes," he murmurs. "Trust the process."
I do, gripping the armrests as strange hands work expensive-smelling products through my scalp. The massage feels foreign, almost invasive—no one's touched my hair with care since... ever, probably.
Two hours vanish. When Marcus finally spins my chair toward the mirror, my breath catches.
Glossy waves cascade past my shoulders in deliberate layers that frame my face, catching light like spun honey. The ragged, lifeless mess is gone, replaced by something that belongs in magazine spreads.
"Holy shit," I whisper.
"Language." Vivian appears behind me, but approval glints in her eyes. "Much better. Now, nails."
The manicurist files away evidence of street life while Vivian scrolls through her phone, humming that unconscious tune. My cuticles stop screaming. My nails emerge smooth and oval, painted a subtle nude that makes my hands look... elegant.
Boutique after boutique follows. Vivian rejects most items with a single glance, occasionally holding something against my frame before nodding or dismissing it entirely.
"Try these." She thrusts an armload of fabrics into my arms—silks, cashmeres, materials that probably cost more than I used to steal in a month.
The dressing room mirror shows someone I don't recognize.
Tailored trousers hug curves I forgot I had.
A cream blouse drapes across my chest without gaping, somehow accommodating my still-full breasts with sophisticated discretion.
The clothes don't hide my body—they celebrate it without screaming for attention.
"Perfect." Vivian circles me, adjusting a seam here, smoothing fabric there. "We'll take six complete outfits, plus the gala dress."
"Six?" My voice cracks.
"You can't wear the same thing twice in front of his colleagues." She says it like it's obvious, like I haven't worn the same jeans for weeks straight because they were the only ones without holes.
Evening arrives as we return to the penthouse, shopping bags multiplying in the trunk. My feet ache in the new heels Vivian insisted I practice walking in, but I don't shuffle. I glide, head high, each step measured.
The penthouse mirror becomes my final judge.
I stare at the stranger looking back. Her honey-blonde hair catches the light in expensive waves.
Her skin glows from whatever magic the esthetician performed.
Her hazel eyes look bigger, brighter, framed by professionally shaped brows.
The soft cashmere sweater and tailored pants transform her petite frame into something... refined.
No trace of the street rat who climbed through Damian's window remains.
My fingers trace my reflection, touching cool glass instead of the polished woman I've become.
"Thank you," I whisper to the empty room, but the gratitude belongs to Damian. He's giving me everything I dreamed about during those cold nights in abandoned buildings—respect, beauty, a chance to be more than what circumstances made me.
The penthouse door clicks open, and my pulse stutters.
Damian fills the entrance, still wearing his charcoal suit from whatever boardroom he conquered today. His slate-gray eyes find me immediately, and the weight of his gaze pins me in place.
Everything stops.
His jaw tightens, that beard-covered muscle flexing as he drinks me in from head to toe. The shopping bags slip from my suddenly nerveless fingers.
"Mr. Kensington." Vivian steps forward, professional smile firmly in place.
"The transformation exceeded expectations.
We covered posture, dining etiquette, appropriate conversation topics, and wardrobe essentials.
She's a remarkably quick study—absorbed everything in half the usual time. I've left detailed notes on?—"
"Good work." He doesn't look at her. His focus burns through me, stripping away the expensive clothes, the polished hair, seeing straight into the girl underneath who still trembles when he enters a room.
"Right. Well." Vivian collects her tablet, that composed mask flickering with understanding. "I'll send the follow-up schedule tomorrow. Augusta, practice your posture exercises."
She clicks toward the elevator, heels sharp against marble.
The door closes.
We're alone.