Chapter 16
Chapter Sixteen
The red-letter day has arrived at lightning speed.
Sure, it’s only been a week, but I remember absolutely nothing other than stressing about this very moment.
The reasons are varied.
Coming in at number one: tripping and falling in front of the cameras. Slim odds. High anxiety.
At number two: being surrounded, not only by one, but by an entire herd of celebrities. Am I nervous about meeting them? No. Am I anxious about not controlling my filter and telling someone off if they’re obnoxious? Yes.
And finally, the worst of all—number three: being utterly and embarrassingly underdressed. Odds? High. Time to fix it? Three hours. Can I do something about it? Unfortunately, no.
“You don’t have to worry about a single thing, love. I’ll take care of everything. Just send me your dress and shoe size,” Harrison had said on Tuesday, over a shared box of noodles. “Not the most gentlemanly request, I admit—but I promise, it’ll be an unforgettable experience.”
I was skeptical of someone else picking my outfits, but he assured me I’d have plenty of options to choose from. I didn’t bring it up again after that. By Friday night after work, with still no updated news about the event, I felt ready to jump out of my skin.
So Claire and I decided to take matters into our own hands and go shopping. We used the last thirty minutes at work to research the standard.
Turns out, there’s no standard.
Every premiere is different. It changes drastically depending on the genre, the place, and the time of day… all of it.
I bought two floor-length dresses that could possibly get the job done. Both looked good in-store—the best options within a budget.
It might have been the lighting.
I’m standing in front of the full-body mirror that usually hangs from my bedroom door, now leaning against the kitchen counter.
My hair’s in a messy bun, my face is clear of makeup, and I’m wearing the second dress we chose. I turn to one side. Then to the other. There is no angle from which this dress looks premiere-worthy.
The white flushes me out completely, leaving me looking like a ghost. The droopy off-shoulder sleeves look like they’ve been put there by mistake.
“Oof,” says Claire, holding a pair of even whiter heels. Seriously, what were we thinking? “I have fake tan spray.”
“That’s a slippery slope I don’t think we should even attempt,” I laugh, dry and defeated.
We have failed. This dress is not wearable.
Still no new messages from Harrison. I call him. It rings. Then it sends me to voicemail. It’s officially panic o’clock.
When I turn around, Claire’s face shows distress like never before. She’s nervously tugging at the hem of her t-shirt.
“Maybe we should try on the burgundy one again?” she suggests. “After this, it might look better.”
“Anything would look better after this,” I say, preparing to surrender and collapse dramatically onto the kitchen floor—when there’s a knock at my door.
Our heads whip toward the sound, our eyes meeting in the middle for a millisecond. “Harrison,” we say at the same time.
She runs to the door like she’s the one attending the event. Behind, we find not one, but an entire dress and makeup crew. Leading them is a tall brunette, her dark, long hair cascading over a bare face. Her features appear overworked, yet her natural beauty and style still shine through.
“Oh, honey,” she says, sweeping inside and dragging me into the living room. “Let’s get you out of this...” She waves her hands over the white dress, “and into something a bit more flattering.”
I glance back at Claire, mortified. She takes the hint and begins tidying up the chaos we left in our fashion-failure panic.
“I know we don’t have much time,” says the woman, still lacking an introduction. “I had to salvage Harrison’s outfit at the last minute. But don’t worry, I’ve got everything under control.”
From the corner of my eyes, I watch how all her minions turn my living room into a high-end boutique and hairdresser all-in-one. Racks unfold. Hair tools are plugged in.
“I’m sorry,” I manage, trying to catch up. “You’ve been with Harrison? Today?”
“He’s all good to go. Don’t you worry about that.”
She grabs one of my kitchen stools and plants it in front of the mirror. “I do appreciate the effort,” she comments, gesturing around. “I thought Harrison told you we’d be here.”
“He did,” I say, cheeks heating. “I hadn’t heard anything else after that. I didn’t want to be caught empty-handed.”
She nods, understanding. “He’s a busy man. Don’t take it the wrong way.”
“I didn’t catch your name,” I say, a little sharper than I intended.
“You can call me Sam.” She’s studying my face closely. “You’ve got perfect features for a red carpet. Harrison’s team really did their homework. You’ll fit right in.”
My stomach drops.
My eyes widen. He didn’t tell her?
“That’s not...” I start, instantly defensive. My brain scrambles for the right way to explain I’m not a ‘woman-for-hire,’ or worse.
Is it my position to say? If he wanted them to know we were dating, he would’ve said something about it.
“I’ve never really done this before,” I settle, swallowing my pride and how offended I feel. “It’s not my thing.”
“What’s your name, honey?” she asks softly.
Great. Now I’m being pitied.
“Julia,” I say, clearly not pleased. There’s a faint edge in my tone, but it’s all I have to show that I’m not here as decoration. I’m here for him. There’s not much I can do about it now. I need this woman’s help.
“You’re in great hands,” she continues. I just nod and succumb to her doings.
It takes about thirty minutes for the team to work their magic. At some point, Claire starts taking pictures of products that we can undoubtedly not afford.
When the last pair of hands finally lifts away, I stare at the mirror.
I’ve never looked this good. I couldn’t replicate the look even if I tried. Everything from the blush to the waves in my normally messy hair looks natural.
“I’ve been browsing through the dresses we brought,” Sam announces. “I think I’ve found the one. But feel free to rummage around. You know your style better than anyone.”
For some reason, even with the irritation still floating around in my head, I trust her enough to try on her pick—that, and desperately wanting to get out of the whitest dress ever created.
“You know those dresses better than anyone,” I shrug, following her over to the rolling rack.
She picks one covered by a long black protective bag. Her tallest assistant steps in to hold it high while she unzips it, slow and theatrical, all the way down to the floor.
It’s stunning.
A long, jet-black dress, its deep neckline and delicate straps giving it the elegance Claire and I spent hours trying to find. The sequins shimmer in a wave-like, subtle but hypnotic. This isn’t just a dress—it’s a one-way ticket to a red carpet.
“From the look on your face,” Sam says with a raised brow, “can I assume you approve?”
She knows she’s hit the jackpot.
“I mean, yeah,” I breathe, still in awe. “It’s definitely something I would go for.”
She hands me the hanger and points to the bedroom. “Try it on.”
I nod, leaving the crowd of eyes behind.
“Don’t bother looking for the tag,” she calls after me. “Harrison said to cut them all. He’s taken care of everything.”
Of course he has.
That was the first thing I was going to check. It’s like he knows me better than I know myself.
I finally peel off the white disaster. As much as I would love nothing more than to burn it out of existence, I hang it up, ready to return. It’s a love-hate relationship.
I unzip the black gown and slip it over my head. The inner lining is silky and soft. Despite the sequins, it’s weightless—dropping perfectly from my shoulders. It molds to my figure like it was made for me. Definitely the most flattering piece of clothing I’ve ever worn.
I shuffle back into the living room to be met with a bunch of jaw-dropped stares.
“Okay,” Claire says, blinking rapidly. “It might be because we set the bar in hell, but… you look stunning.”
“Final touches,” Sam chimes in, handing me a pair of dangly silver earrings and classic black heels. “Now, you’re red carpet ready.”
Claire leaves with the team, promising to call me later.
I sit on the couch, too nervous to move. The dress is perfect, and I refuse to crease it before he arrives.
Harrison finally texted me a couple of minutes ago to let me know he was on his way. I expect him to meet me downstairs, so I’m shocked when the doorbell rings.
I open the door, and I have to remind myself to breathe.
He looks exquisite.
He’s in an all-black suit. No tie. The shirt is tucked and tailored to perfection. The first three buttons are undone—a reckless choice that makes my brain stop working. I want to tear it open and send the rest flying.
My gaze roams upward, over the precise trim of his beard, to his sharp jawline. His blue eyes are shining bright under the hall light, and—
His eyebrow arches.
“I feel so violated right now,” he jokes.
“Honestly,” I tell him, pulling him forward so I can run my hands down his neck, “it’s a crime to look this good.”
He leans in.
Lower.
Even though it’s just us, he whispers—because he knows exactly what he’s doing. I brace for what’s coming.
“I’ve been cursed,” he growls softly, “having to stare at you in this dress all night… when all I want is to take it off you, right now.”
His teeth graze my ear. A shiver runs down my spine. A sound escapes me that I don’t mean to let out.
“You look so gorgeous, Julia,” he murmurs. “The most beautiful, sexiest woman I’ve ever laid eyes on.”
My legs turn to Jell-O, and I blush hard. I try to hide my complete inability to take a compliment by leaning into his lips. Thanks to the heels, I don’t have to tiptoe.
It heats up before I can stop it.
He bites my lip. I open my mouth, letting him in without resistance. His hands slowly, teasingly, run down my back before settling on my ass in a playful grip.
He pulls me closer to him, holding me there.