Chapter 33 Get Ready With Me
Apple POV
I had always believed celebrations were meant to be seen.
If something mattered, it had to be large enough to leave an impression, expensive enough to make people talk about it afterward, and polished enough to plant envy quietly in their chests.
That was why Mom had booked the largest hotel in the city. Not just the ballroom, but an entire wing of guest rooms. If you were going to celebrate, you did it properly.
Mom and I arrived at eleven that morning.
Naturally, I was given the largest suite.
Sunlight spilled through the floor-to-ceiling windows, washing the room in gold. The air smelled faintly of citrus cleanser and expensive detergent, that sterile luxury scent hotels perfected.
By noon, the space was no longer a room, it was a production set. A stylist. A makeup artist. A hairdresser. Someone just for my hands. Someone else assigned to the dress. Brushes, palettes, sprays, pins slowly swallowed every flat surface.
I sat in the chair by the mirror as hands moved over me, touching, lifting, smoothing, correcting, as if I were a celebrity.
People were coming to see me. I needed to be flawless.
I lifted my phone and angled it just right.
“Get ready with me,” I murmured to the camera, a soft smile in place as sunlight caught my cheekbones.
I filmed short clips next, the curling iron winding through my hair, foundation blended seamlessly, lashes fluttering as they were set.
I snapped a selfie, then another, followed by a slow pan of the room, gowns hanging, assistants moving, the quiet chaos of preparation.
People loved the process. Loved the illusion of intimacy.
I posted a short story. Not too revealing. Just enough.
Big night.
Feeling grateful.
The likes started coming in almost immediately.
I filmed another clip when my nails were finished, pale and elegant, fingers resting lightly on my thigh. Then one more when my hairdresser stepped back and said, “Perfect.”
I smiled for the camera like it had all happened naturally.
Ashley would never understand this part.
Mom stood near the window, checking messages from downstairs.
“Ashley didn’t want to get ready with us,” she said. “I invited her. She said she had plans.”
I lowered my phone. “Plans for what?”
Mom’s mouth tightened. “She said she’d arrive on her own. As if that’s appropriate.”
I frowned, irritation blooming.
“That’s weird. She used to be so easy. You’d tell her something and she’d just accept it.”
Mom brushed imaginary lint from her sleeve.
“Well,” she said dismissively, “it’s her loss.”
I flipped the camera back on myself, catching my reflection from a better angle. Another short clip. Another smile.
“I hope she wears the dress I picked,” mom said, not looking at me.
I smiled at the camera.
“Of course she will. She wants your approval too much not to.”
We shared a soft laugh. Quiet. Conspiratorial.
Then Mom’s smile thinned.
“But something’s changed,” she said quietly. “She doesn’t… reach for me the way she used to. She’s unpredictable lately. Secretive.”
That scared her. I could hear it in the way she said it.
For a moment, the makeup artist stepped away to coordinate with the dress assistant.
“I still haven’t gotten her signature,” Mom whispered. “Every time I bring it up, she delays. She wants to read things now.”
I scoffed. “She’s just pretending to be smart.”
“Still,” Mom said. “Talk to her tonight. Convince her.”
I smiled. “I will.”
The assistants returned, refocusing on my hair and makeup. I let them work as my thoughts drifted.
I hated Ashley.
Not the shallow kind of hate. This was deeper. The kind that settles in your bones.
It should have been her.
That day. That store. That man.
Not me.
I’d hated her before, her stupid talent, the way teachers softened when she played piano, how Dad’s gaze lingered on her like she was something special.
But after that day in Walmart, it became something else entirely.
If fate had any sense of justice, it would’ve taken her instead.
But it hadn’t. It had taken me.
I never forgave her for surviving untouched.
So I took things back.
Little by little. Friends. Attention. Moments. Opportunities.
Anything she loved, I learned how to ruin quietly.
She never noticed until it was too late. She believed I was kind. She believed in me.
That was the funniest part.
Anton had been the last real win.
I knew she liked him. Of course I did. I always knew what she cared about. It had been easy. A spiked drink. A suggestion. People were always eager to make bad decisions if you just opened the door for them.
I had expected tears. Humiliation. Some satisfying collapse.
Instead… nothing.
She changed. Acted like she suddenly saw through me.
Impossible.
But still… unsettling.
A dress assistant stepped in front of me, breaking the mental spiral.
“This is yours,” she said, lifting a dress from the rack.
White lace. Knee-length. Elegant. Expensive. The kind of dress people remembered. The kind that said innocent and important in the same breath.
Perfect.
Heels followed, high enough to give me a few extra inches. Five-three was never enough..
Mom returned then, all brightness again.
“How’s everything going?”
“Almost ready,” the stylist said. “Miss looks stunning.”
Mom smiled proudly. “Good. Nick will be here tonight.”
I looked up sharply. “Nick?”
Tall. Rich. Handsome.
I had always liked him. Wanted him.
“Yes,” she said lightly. “Try to catch his attention. It wouldn’t hurt.”
I smiled. “Trust me.”
By five forty-five, Mom was flawless. She checked herself once more in the mirror and nodded.
“I’m going down to greet guests,” she said. “Take your time.”
I stayed behind.
I wanted my entrance to make an impression.
I adjusted my posture in the mirror, letting the moment stretch. When I walked in, I wanted every head to turn. I wanted the room to feel it.
This night was mine.
When I finally stepped into the ballroom, music filled the air and the space was already alive, laughter echoing off marble floors, champagne glasses clinking, the scent of perfume and money hanging heavy.
Mom and Dad moved between guests, smiling, shaking hands, performing.
Heads turned.
I smiled.
Everything was exactly as it should be.
I made my rounds, greeted guests, accepted compliments, flirted just enough, until I noticed something missing.
Ashley wasn’t there.
I scanned the room again.
Still nothing.
A slow smile curved my lips.
Had she been too ugly to show up? Tried to do her own makeup and failed? Realized she didn’t belong?
The thought pleased me.
I turned and drifted toward my friends, all of them daughters of money and legacy, girls who understood appearances instinctively.
One of them leaned in. “Hasn’t Ashley arrived yet?”
Another wrinkled her nose. “Is she actually going to wear that?
“The dress is worse than the one she wore at your birthday last year,” someone else added, laughing softly.
They sounded exactly the way I wanted them to.
I let their words wash over me, savoring them. Earlier, I’d sent a photo into our group chat, the dress Mom had chosen for Ashley. I made sure the narrative arrived before she did.
“It’s your party too,” one girl said. “Why would you let her show up like that?”
I sighed, letting my smile turn strained. Hurt. Noble.
“I tried to stop her,” I said quietly. “She wouldn’t listen.”
“Then she shouldn’t even come,” another girl scoffed. “She’ll ruin everything.”
I watched their expressions twist with disdain, and satisfaction settled neatly in my chest.
“She’s still my sister,” I said gently. “She graduated too. I can’t exactly ban her.” I hesitated, just long enough. “I just hope you don’t mind… whatever she does tonight.”
Then someone came hurrying over, eyes wide. “Ashley’s here.”
The group lit up instantly.
“Oh God.”
“I’m already cringing.”
“I should’ve brought sunglasses or a blindfold.”
“What kind of makeup do you think she did?”
“It has to be awful. Remember her dramatic phase?”
“She really shouldn’t be here. She’d fit better in a circus.”
They were laughing now, too absorbed to notice the odd hesitation on the messenger’s face.
“Wait,” she said slowly. “She looks… different.”
Someone snorted. “Different how? Worse?”
Laughter burst out again.
Then silence.
The room seemed to still, like someone had turned the volume down too abruptly. Conversations faded. Heads turned.
I followed their gaze to the entrance.
For a moment, no one spoke.
“Am I… hallucinating?” someone whispered. “She looks like Ashley.”
Another voice, uncertain now. “Is that really her? I remember how bad she looked at your birthday…”
Ashley walked in with grace.