Chapter 3
Three
ZOE / VICTORIA
Kate, who looked like she’d stepped out of a makeup artist origin story with her perfect winged eyeliner and never-smudge red lips, had sculpted Victoria’s features with the precision of a plastic surgeon minus the scalpels.
Meanwhile, Anna—rocking a platinum-blond pixie cut that belonged in a high-fashion magazine—had twisted and pinned my hair into a chignon so tight I was pretty sure I was getting free Botox from the tension alone.
The result was… well, if evil queens had a corporate CEO sister, I was looking at her.
The tailored suit in ice-blue screamed, “I eat souls for breakfast and hostile takeovers for lunch.” The makeup was flawless but harsh—all sharp contours and dramatic eyes that could probably slice through diamonds.
Combined with the tight updo, I looked like someone who’d not only never laughed at a dirty joke but would have the joke arrested for indecency.
I looked expensive. Untouchable. Like someone who’d respond to “What’s for dinner?
” with “Whatever my nutritionist pre-approved three weeks ago in consultation with my astrologer.” Definitely not like someone who knew the simple joy of dancing badly to good music or eating pizza straight from the box.
“This isn’t me,” I muttered, reaching up to loosen the tight bun. Anna made a small distressed sound behind me, her hands fluttering like nervous birds at a cat convention.
“Mrs. Everett, we spent an hour getting that perfect?—”
“I know, and you did an amazing job.” I smiled at her through the mirror, watching both women react like I’d just announced I was giving up caviar for street food.
The warmth in Victoria’s usually arctic expression seemed to short-circuit their brains.
“But maybe we could try something… softer? Less corporate dominatrix and more actual human being?”
Twenty minutes later, my hair fell in elegant waves around my shoulders, softening Victoria’s sharp features like magic.
Kate had worked her wonders, transforming the harsh contours into something that wouldn’t frighten small children.
I’d insisted on wiping off some of the heavier makeup, letting a few freckles show through—because apparently, Victoria Everett was actually human under all that war paint.
The severe suit jacket, which screamed, “I’ll see you in court,” was replaced with a silk blouse in deep emerald that brought warmth to Victoria’s gray eyes.
“There,” I said, smoothing down the pencil skirt. “Now I look less likely to demand someone’s firstborn child as part of a contract.”
Anna and Kate exchanged nervous glances that spoke volumes—mostly in the genre of horror fiction. Kate’s perfectly manicured fingers twisted her silver necklace while Anna clutched her brush like it was the last lifeboat on the Titanic.
“Hey.” I turned to face them. “Thank you both so much. You’re incredibly talented.
” Their eyes widened like I’d just announced world peace.
“We should have a proper girls’ afternoon sometimes.
You know, wine, fancy appetizers, maybe order from all those restaurants where the food looks more like abstract art than dinner?
” The words tumbled out as my inner foodie did backflips of joy.
“You could teach me about makeup and hair while we eat. I mean, Kate—your eyeliner could guide ships to shore. And Anna, the way you work with different hair textures… I’d love to learn. ”
The shocked silence that followed made me wonder if Victoria had ever strung two kind words together in her life. Then, slowly, tentative smiles appeared on both women’s faces like the sun peeking out after a nuclear winter. Anna’s pixie cut bobbed as she nodded enthusiastically.
“Really?” she asked, then caught herself like she’d just committed high treason. “I mean, of course, Mrs. Everett. That would be… lovely.”
“Oh my God, yes! We could do a whole tasting menu thing!” I was probably showing enough enthusiasm to power a small city, but I couldn’t help it.
“Sam?” I called out to the doorway where she stood with her tablet, clutching it like a shield.
“Could you help us set that up? Like, really good wine and those tiny fancy foods that look like they were arranged with tweezers? And maybe some actual substantial food too because I’m pretty sure air and artistic presentation aren’t actual food groups? ”
Sam’s tablet trembled slightly in her hands, but I caught the ghost of a smile on her lips—like a ninja smile, there and gone in a flash. “Of course, Mrs. Everett. I’ll make the arrangements.”
“Perfect!” I beamed at all three women, who looked like they were secretly checking for signs of alien body snatchers.
“For now, though, Mrs. Everett, your car is waiting.” Sam’s eyes swept over my softened appearance again, and I swore I saw approval crack through her professional poker face.
The elevator ride down to the lobby was quiet, but not uncomfortable—like the silence after a really good dessert. As we stepped out, Sam’s voice was barely above a whisper. “The new look… it suits you.”
I grinned at her, earning another startled blink. “Thanks, Sam. Sometimes a little warmth goes a long way.”
A sleek black Bentley waited outside, gleaming like a penguin at a formal dinner.
The driver—a distinguished-looking man in his fifties who probably witnessed more drama than a soap opera writer—held the door with practiced precision.
His name tag read Peter, and while his expression remained professionally neutral, I caught the slight widening of his eyes at my softer appearance.
Poor guy looked like he was questioning everything he knew about the universe.
“Good morning, Peter,” I said, earning another barely concealed look of surprise. Right. Victoria probably treated her driver’s name like a state secret—classified information not worth knowing.
As I slid into the butter-soft leather interior, I caught my reflection in the tinted window.
Still elegant, still sophisticated, but now I looked like someone who might actually smile at strangers instead of measuring them for shallow graves.
Someone who’d say “please” and “thank you” and mean it, rather than using them as prefaces to soul-crushing demands.
The car pulled away from the curb, gliding smoothly into Manhattan traffic. Victoria Everett was about to make her grand entrance at the charity luncheon. But this time, she’d do it with a heart instead of a calculator where her emotions should be.
I just hoped I wouldn’t completely blow her cover in the process. Though watching these Upper East Side socialites deal with a Victoria who actually had a soul might be worth the price of admission—and hey, at least this show was included in the body-snatching package deal.
The thought made me smile as Peter navigated through morning traffic. How strange that just yesterday, I was the one dodging these luxury cars on my way to work. Now here I sat, on the other side of the glass, watching my old world scroll past like some surreal movie.
Manhattan looked different from behind tinted windows—like someone had slapped an expensive filter on my entire world.
I watched the streets glide by, half expecting to see price tags floating above everything like in a video game.
There were the coffee shops where I used to count quarters for a small dark roast, now replaced by the knowledge of where to get beverages so fancy they probably came with their own trust funds.
The bustling sidewalks where I used to dodge tourists while racing to my next shift, now separated from me by glass probably thick enough to stop a small missile.
Or an angry ex-waiter with a grudge against the one percent.
Same city, different universe. Talk about a literal rags-to-riches story, minus the fairy godmother and plus one identity theft.
A group of waitresses hurried past, their black uniforms and sensible shoes so familiar it made my chest ache.
Had it really been only yesterday when that was me?
Now here I sat, cocooned in leather and luxury like a butterfly that had accidentally landed in the first-class section, watching my old world from the other side of the glass like some bizarre museum exhibit: Common Worker in Natural Habitat, Circa Yesterday.
“Sam?” My voice broke through the elegant silence.
“Could you brief me about this luncheon? Who’s attending?
” The words came out shakier than I’d intended, panic bubbling beneath the surface like a pot of overpriced organic soup.
How was I supposed to navigate a room full of socialites when I couldn’t tell a duchess from a desperate housewife?
At least in my waitressing days, the only hierarchy I had to remember was that the customer was always right—even when they were monumentally wrong.
Sam’s fingers flew across her tablet with military precision. For a moment, I thought I saw a flicker of satisfaction in her carefully neutral expression—like a student who’d not only done all the extra credit but had color-coded it and added sparkly tabs.
“Of course, Mrs. Everett. The event is hosted by Charlotte Harrison at La Maison’s Ivory Room.
” She pulled up a series of profile photos so perfectly curated they belonged in a museum of social perfection.
“The guest list includes Margaret Ashworth—she’s still bitter about losing the Children’s Hospital board position to you last spring.
Diana Burton, who’s been trying to poach your preferred caterer for her daughter’s wedding. And Rebecca Whitman?—”
The moment I saw the photos, something weird happened. Like someone had plugged a USB drive directly into my brain and hit download—except instead of getting a virus, I was getting Victoria’s Greatest Hits of Social Warfare.