Chapter 7
CHAPTER
SEVEN
For the first time since our parents got engaged and introduced us, my stepsisters are being nice to me.
Suspiciously nice.
"Is there anything else you need?" I ask, already shuffling toward the door to my adjoining room. They helped pack up and cart everything from the signing up to the room, so I'm worried they're going to reveal themselves as body snatchers only disguised as my evil stepsisters.
"You've been so helpful already." Gisele clasps a hand to her chest and beams a wide smile.
Yep, body snatchers. Any second now.
"Why don't you come sit down and let us do something for you for once?" Gisele gestures to the rolling chair positioned in front of a vanity with an oversized mirror. There are lights lining the mirror like an old Hollywood hair and makeup setup meant for a leading lady.
Bea crosses the room and pats the chair, joining in to beckon me over.
I narrow my eyes in confused suspicion. No way did either of them undergo a total personality transformation by chance so soon after hearing Rob ask me on a date. Something is going on here. I'm just not sure exactly what their angle is.
After Rob walked away, we finished the last minutes of the book signing mostly as normal. Gisele and Bea did some furious whispering I didn't pay much attention to, but now I wish I'd ignored the fact that my ADHD meds were wearing off and tried harder to eavesdrop on them.
"Come on," Gisele urges impatiently. "We'll get you ready."
Hovering in the middle of their suite, I tilt my head as my confusion only grows. "Ready for what?"
Bea hauls a makeup case from beside the vanity and plops it down hard enough to rattle the furniture. She puts her freed hands on her hips and scowls at me with an exasperated huff. "For the rooftop party, obviously ."
She picks up a curling iron to hold in the air like a trophy she's announcing I won. Her expression softens marginally, and she smiles teasingly at me in a way that doesn't quite reach her eyes.
My guard is up sky-high.
"You want to help me get ready?" The incredulous words roll off my tongue full of uncertainty.
The sisters nod together like bobble-heads. Still not convincing. The body snatcher theory is still at the forefront of my mind.
Bea sighs heavily, the first to break the charade.
"Do you know how bad we're going to look to the other authors if our assistant doesn't show up to the party with us?
Bringing a charity case as our assistant is only acceptable if we seem super charitable.
Like, if we let you hang out with us and stuff. "
Gisele shoots Bea a nasty look. "Stop talking," she grinds out from behind clenched teeth.
They want to make sure my presence doesn't make them look bad tonight. Now the motivation is much more clear thanks to Bea's short tolerance for being nice. My tense shoulders relax as I realize this could be a mutually beneficial arrangement for once.
(After all, I'm a one-trick pony when it comes to doing my own makeup.)
"Help would be nice," I say, warming to the idea of giving my stepsisters this chance to do something nice for me... in a roundabout way.
I take the offered seat with marginally less trepidation. Though, I do stick my crossed fingers under my thigh and hold my breath that they're not secretly going to chop my hair into a bob or write PENIS across my forehead in permanent marker.
Getting warped into the multiverse and spit out on a new plane of reality doesn't feel the way I expected.
The ground doesn't wobble and there's no dramatic music score to accompany the big change as Gisele and Bea set to work turning me into a version of a stepsister that they deem suitable for public consumption.
I kind of feel robbed. There could have at least been some motion sickness to confirm that I am, in fact, no longer living in my normal timeline.
"You have nice hair," Bea compliments begrudgingly, her tone short, as she wraps sections of my red hair around the barrel of the curling iron. Every time she pulls the wand away, she leaves behind perfect, glossy spirals.
"Thanks," I say quietly. I'm afraid if I speak too loud, I'll break the body snatcher magic and everything will go right back to normal.
Bea finishes my last curl and steps out of the way so Gisele can close in on my face with a small makeup brush and tin of gel eyeliner.
She makes the process of applying eyeliner seem effortless, and when she steps away, I'm impressed that she's managed to give me a fiercer version of the cat eye eyeliner I usually wear.
Her lines are sharp enough to cut glass.
"Almost perfect." Gisele sticks her tongue out to the side as she grabs a blush palette off the vanity and gives a quick dusting to each of my cheeks to finish me off.
When both sisters step away to leave me with a full view of myself in the mirror, I'm gobsmacked.
I look like a version of myself that has a whole team of celebrity stylists regularly on staff.
Bea and Gisele both would have had a promising career in an aesthetic field if they hadn't decided to siphon the life out of romance readers succubus-style, instead.
"What do you think?" Bea asks, tapping her foot impatiently.
"It's unbelievable," I tell her honestly, giving her the gushing compliment she's looking for. "You two are insanely talented. I don't know how you did all of this so fast."
She crosses her arms over her chest and smiles smugly. I'm sure she'll remind me of this moment no less than thirty times by Christmas, even though we're only likely to see each other once or twice in that time now that I'm finally going to disentangle myself from their author careers.
"And for the final touch..." Gisele walks confidently to the closet with her head high and shoulders back. She returns moments later with an unfamiliar garment bag that she holds up triumphantly.
I turn in my seat to face the sisters. "What's that?"
"Hold this." Gisele thrusts the garment bag at Bea, who reluctantly takes it, and unzips the length to reveal a slinky black dress.
She can't mean to be offering me this dress, something obviously meant for one of them to wear. We're not the same size in dresses, and this is the kind of thing they wear for events and social media videos. Not me. I'm more into fun prints and flowy skirts that swoosh around my legs when I walk.
Low neckline. Clingy fabric. Hem that is sure to skim mid-thigh.
"I can't wear that," I protest, standing because I feel too vulnerable sitting with my stepsisters staring down at me with matching looks that tell me they absolutely expect me to put this dress on no matter how I feel about it. "This dress is too–"
"Perfect," Gisele interrupts. "Trust us. If you're going to spend time with a male model, you need to step up your game. Besides, the dress the designer sent me is way too big, so this will fit you much better than it would fit me."
I ignore her attempt at a dig about the sizing. Just because we're different body shapes doesn't mean I feel any shame about mine. My body is strong, capable, and beautiful. I have occasional insecurities like anyone, but I'm not embarrassed in my own skin.
Her words are a good reminder that I don't trust them. My stepsisters have never been trustworthy by any stretch of the imagination.
But I do want to spend time with a male model.
"I'll try it on," I acquiesce because they might be right about stepping up my game.
I dress a little like a preschool teacher sometimes with my bright-colored patterns.
What could trying the dress on really hurt?
I can always change into something else if I'm as uncomfortable as I expect I might be.
"Great!" Bea claps her hands together. "You can change right here."
In front of them? No way in hell. I suspect that would be a one way ticket to finding pictures of me in my underwear online later.
I'm putting a little trust in them here, letting them do my hair, makeup, and picking my dress.
Let's draw the line at exposing myself anywhere near their camera phones.
"I'd prefer to change in the bathroom."
"Whatever. That's fine. Just hurry, we don't want to be late." Gisele waves me off toward the bathroom.
I have to fight the urge to roll my eyes.
Admittedly, I'm not the best at keeping track of time, but my stepsisters regularly make the conscious choice to be fashionably late to events.
I'll probably be dressed and ready in a few minutes, waiting by the door while they change outfits six times and touch up their own makeup.
I take the garment bag into the bathroom and firmly shut and lock the door behind me. I hang the bag on the hook on the back of the door and hurry to slip the dress off the hanger. The longer I wait to put the dress on, the more likely I am to lose my nerve.
As happy as I am in my own skin, I'm also aware that I have personal preferences about what I think is flattering on my own body. Tight-fitting clothes aren't usually my jam. Neither is an all-black dress.
Still, the dress slips over my head easier than I expected. The material stretches to accommodate my shape easily, leaving me feeling like the material is supporting my body rather than strangling me. My eyes are already wide before I even look in the mirror.
The dress doesn't look–or feel–like I expected.
The Daisy staring back at me looks like she maybe, kinda, sorta has her shit together. The perfect curls and makeup, the dress hugging every womanly curve of my body, and the classic color palate of a black dress and red lipstick.
This isn't me.
I don't recognize this version of myself, and I'm not sure I want to. As much as I realize that I look objectively good dolled up like this, it's not authentic. And pretending to be someone I'm not is the very thing I judge most about my stepsisters.
"I think I should wear my own dress to the party!" I call out as I slip the dress back over my head and make myself back at home in the bright dress I've happily worn all day.
Even with my hair and makeup done differently, I feel more like me again.
The muffled sound of my stepsisters giggling from behind the door tells me I've made a grave error in judgement by trusting them. My heart sinks, and my toes curl under as dread makes its way under my perfectly applied foundation to seep into my pores.
"What party?" Bea calls back as something thunks against the bathroom door. "You're not going to any party."
" What? " I ask breathlessly, the word barely a whisper that they couldn't possibly hear through the door.
I lunge for the door, but the knob only rattles as I attempt to twist it. Push harder. Yank. Nothing. My heart stutters as the door refuses to budge.
"Gisele?" My voice cracks as I slap my palm against the door. "Bea? What the hell? This isn't funny!"
Their laughter is louder now, slipping under the door to taunt me. They planned this all along, and the part of me that wants to believe Sherry's claims that her daughters have hearts of gold underneath it all fell for their trap hook, line, and sinker.
"Good luck, Cinderella," Bea says, punctuating her words with a cheerful cackle. "Try not to turn into a pumpkin while we're gone."
"Don't wait up," Gisele adds smugly.
Their footsteps retreat. A door slams. Silence swallows the room.
"Cinderella doesn't turn into a pumpkin; her carriage does!" I shout to the barricaded door of the empty hotel room. I'm embarrassed and angry. This is low, even for them.
But things could be worse. Either locking me in here is only symbolic, or they didn't think their plan through all the way. I have my phone with me, so I can simply call the lobby and ask for them to send someone up to free me.
Easy-peasy.
Or it would be that easy, if only the lobby would actually pick up the phone! I let my calls ring to voicemail three times, leaving three different messages with the room number and a quick recap of the situation, before I give up and slide to the bathroom floor with my back against the wall.
Well, isn't this a ridiculous end to the weirdest weekend of my life? Caught the attention of the book cover model for my absolute favorite book. Simultaneously destroyed the last shred of hope I had for salvaging some kind of relationship with my stepsisters.
The clock is ticking.
A sob tries to claw its way up my throat, but I choke it down. No. I won't cry about this. If I look hard enough, I'm sure I have an email with contact information for the event organizer, Nina. She could send a volunteer to find a hotel employee for help.
That's the easiest way to handle this. Privately. Quietly. Without kicking up much of a fuss. Maybe get out of this bathroom, slink my way into my own bed, spend the rest of the night feeling sorry for myself.
My stepsisters think that's exactly what I'm going to do. That means I need to do the opposite.
They locked me in here to keep me invisible; I think it's about time we all finally get seen for who we are.
I hold my phone out in front of me, the dark screen reflecting a vision of me as I am right now. Perfect curls, flawless lipstick, eyes glassy with unshed tears, and a determination that wasn't quite there before.
My favorite romance heroines might swoon over grumpy bad boys and occasionally make fools out of themselves, but they also always stand up for themselves in the end. Time to stop being so scared and start channeling my inner main character.