Chapter 18 Rae
RAE
[HANDWRITTEN ON MAISON éLISE LETTERHEAD]
S?sha —
Mr. Lazarev is sending a client today. Follow his instructions to the letter. Do not disappoint me.
And especially do not disappoint him.
I don’t think I’ve ever seen a grin bigger than the one Jillian is wearing as she flounces up to me on Thursday afternoon. She’s wearing what I call her Reporter Outfit: stylish dark cigarette jeans with devilishly sharp black boots, a scuffed black leather jacket, and a chunky crimson scarf.
“You look French,” I inform her.
She fans herself playfully. “Oh my God, are you hitting on me?”
“In your dreams.”
“I mean, I’ve heard you’re into the ladies these days, so it’s only fair to ask…”
I instantly blush a combination of red and pale that makes me feel like a stop sign. “Shut up,” I mumble.
“Too soon?” asks Jillian. “Yeah, too soon. My bad.” She brightens back up again and does a little shimmy of glee. “Lots to be excited about today, though! Ready to see what Sugar Daddy picked out for you?”
That does nothing to quell my flushed face. “Please do not call him that.”
“Would you prefer Zaddy? Silver Fox? The Geezer Who Pays Your Bills?”
“I’d prefer silence, actually.”
She links her arm through mine. “Tough titty. I’m a yapper. Let’s go.”
Maison élise is in the Meatpacking District. The building doesn’t have a sign, just a small brass plaque next to an anonymous black door. If you didn’t know it was there, you’d walk right past.
Jillian whistles low. “Shmancy.”
I wrinkle my nose. “I hate it already.”
She opens the door and I pause on the threshold. Places like this have a smell. It’s not just the boujee oil diffusers hidden in the ceiling, though—it’s the smell of money. Old money, new money, lots of money, any money. I learned to recognize that smell after Mom and Dad died.
They didn’t have life insurance, nor did they have any living family on either side.
The modest savings account they left behind dried up faster than fast. Funerals aren’t cheap, and neither are braces for morose fifteen-year-olds.
College, needless to say, was an expense we could not afford.
Within three months, I’d dropped out to start working two jobs and picking up spare shifts at a third whenever I could make it happen.
The rest of my free time was spent lying to my little brother about why we couldn’t afford new sneakers when his old ones got holes in the toes.
Places like Maison élise didn’t let girls like me through the door back then. I’d walk past boutiques in Manhattan with Gideon, side-eyeing the opulent window displays and feeling judged by them.
Look, but don’t touch, they seemed to say. Dream, but don’t hope.
Now, I’m supposed to waltz in here like Mary freaking Poppins with a black AmEx and pretend I belong? All because Lukas Lazarev said so?
The thing is, I don’t belong. I never will. No number of fancy dresses or champagne fountains can change where I came from. Pricey lingerie can’t fix what I lost. Expensive heels can’t undo who I became to survive.
Jillian touches my wrist. “You okay, Sunshine?”
“Thriving,” I lie. “Let’s get this over with.”
We step inside. After a short, candle-lit foyer, we step through another door into the main area of the shop. The space is small but dazzling. White walls, white floors, white furniture, white everything, as if color is a concept for the poors to concern themselves with.
Apparently, so is the concept of “products for sale.” A single rack of clothing stands in the corner.
It holds maybe ten pieces total. My rule of thumb holds true: The price of any item within a store is inversely proportional to how many items there are.
If there’s one lone t-shirt on a rack, you know damn well that thing is woven from the mane of a unicorn and infused with the tears of several minor deities.
As we blink to adjust to the light, a woman glides toward us.
She’s at least six feet tall, skinny enough to make me regret my breakfast, and effortlessly elegant, with hair dyed platinum-white in the way that only the coolest of cool girls can pull off.
Her sheer-paneled black dress has so many buckles and zippers. Like it can hide all her juicy secrets.
“Ms. Everett?” she asks.
“That’s me,” I confirm.
“I’m S?sha. We’ve been expecting you.” Her eyes flick to Jillian. “And your… guest.”
“She’s my emotional support human,” I offer. “I don’t go anywhere without her.”
Jillian rests her head on my shoulder and waves. “Hi! I’m here to judge things and drink whatever free booze you have lying around.”
To her credit, S?sha takes that in stride. She bows and smiles. “Of course. It’s a pleasure. Right this way, ladies.”
She leads us through a curtain into a private room. Inside, I find—shocker—more white walls, a white velvet settee, and a white-framed tri-fold mirror that catches every angle I’ve ever had and then some.
Is that really what the back of my head looks like?
“Please, make yourselves comfortable,” S?sha says. “I’ll bring the dress.”
She disappears through another door. Jillian flops onto the settee. “This place is bonkers,” she whispers. “Do you think they have snacks?”
“Focus, please,” I mumble.
“I am focused,” she swears. “I’m focused on snacks.”
I shuffle around uncomfortably, unsure whether to sit or stand or, I dunno, assume some sort of position.
I feel like I’m at the gynecologist’s office—part of me thinks there’s an unspoken understanding that I’m supposed to undress, but the other part of me is lowkey terrified that S?sha is going to come back and be like, Uh, ma’am, why are you naked?
Before I can make up my mind on the question of disrobing, S?sha returns. She’s carrying a garment bag, long and black. She hangs it on a hook near the mirror.
“Mr. Lazarev was very specific,” she explains.
It takes everything I have in me not to say, Oh, I bet he was.
She unzips the bag slowly. The fabric inside catches the light.
… And I stop breathing.
It’s a deep, dark red, like wine or blood or crushed velvet roses.
The dress is floor-length with a stupefyingly high slit on one side, a slit that says, Do not even think of wearing underwear.
The neckline plunges south in a sharp V, heavy on the boobage.
The back is almost completely open, held together only by razor-thin straps that crisscross down the spine.
It’s elegant. It’s gorgeous. It’s a dress that makes people stop talking and start drooling when you walk into a room.
I was so sure I was going to hate it.
I really, really don’t.
Jillian must be thinking the same, because she sits up straight. “Holy shit.”
“Indeed,” S?sha agrees with a cryptic smile.
I reach out and touch the fabric. It’s softer than anything I’ve ever felt. I want to be buried in it. In fact, it’s so soft that I’d consider being buried in it right this second.
“Would you like to try it on?” S?sha asks.
I start to say yes, then think better of it. I’m gonna sound like Minnie Mouse guzzled a whole tank of helium if I try to speak out loud, so I keep my lips zipped and just nod instead.
I shuck off my clothes quickly, then she helps me step into it. The fabric whispers against my skin. Cool at first, then warming to my body like it was made for me. Like it was waiting for me.
Which, I realize as she zips up the back, it pretty much was.
“Mr. Lazarev provided your measurements,” S?sha says, as if reading my thoughts. “He has excellent taste in women’s fashion.” She adjusts one of the straps, chattering idly. “His wife taught him well, until she…”
She catches herself and her mouth snaps shut.
I meet her eyes in the mirror. “Until she what?”
“Nothing!” S?sha’s smile is back, but it’s tighter now, obviously fake, and so brittle that I feel like she’d shatter like a porcelain doll if I touched her. “Turn around, please. Let me see the back.”
I turn—and gasp. The mirror shows me a stranger. The dress hugs every curve. The slit exposes my leg almost to the hip. The open back makes me feel naked and powerful at the same time.
Jillian lets out a low whistle. “Gahdamn, girly-pop! You clean up nice.”
“It’s the dress,” I demur.
“It’s you,” she corrects. “The dress is just enhancing what’s already there.”
S?sha nods. “Your friend is quite right. The dress flatters, but the body underneath does the real work.”
I turn back to face the mirror. The woman staring back at me looks confident. Sexy. Maybe even a little dangerous.
I don’t feel any of those things. But I can fake it for one night, right? Maybe? Possibly? I hope?
“How often does he do this?” I blurt suddenly.
S?sha’s hands pause on my shoulder strap. “Pardon?”
“Mr. Lazarev. How often does he send women here to pick out dresses?”
I sound a little bit more than a little bit rude, but I need to know the answer to a question that’s been bothering me: Am I just a low-rent Natasha?
S?sha’s smile falters. It’s brief, scarcely detectable, but I catch it in the mirror. “I’m not at liberty to discuss my clients’ private business,” she says carefully.
With her eyes, she adds, Don’t you dare ask a follow-up question.
I hold her gaze in the mirror. A little staring contest to see if she’ll stand her ground.
She looks away first.
“The dress fits perfectly,” she declares, switching back to business. “Next: shoes, accessories, and undergarments. Mr. Lazarev mentioned—”
“Oh, fucksticks!”
S?sha and I both look over at the settee in alarm. Jillian has leaped to her feet and is staring bug-eyed at her phone. I think she might even be drooling a little bit?
“Uh, Jill…?” I ask. “Everything alright?”
She’s still too busy cursing up a storm to answer right away. As I watch, she throws her jacket on, whips her scarf around her face, and scrambles to chug the last of the champagne she’s been nursing. “Shit, shit, shit!”
I reach out to touch her shoulder. “Hey. Hon. What’s wrong?”