Chapter 8
“Umm, because you’re literally Miranda’s daughter,” says Julian, one of Mom’s stylists.
“And also, you know, because the two of you live under the same roof and everything. You of all people, babe, would, and should, know about this.” He fixes his blond ponytail and gets back to whatever it is he’s drawing in his sketchbook.
I catch Mave’s eyes in the mirror that’s in front of me, then make a face.
He’s standing next to the door, with his hands clasped behind his back, and gives me a look full of amusement before subtly shaking his head at me.
He’d been just as confused by the charity ball news as I’d been.
It seems like Mom isn’t going with the regular security team for this event; she’s changing course.
Because if she was, then Mave would have received an order to scout the venue, set up the guards’ posts, and plan the exit routes at least two weeks before the actual ball.
But we are only three days away from Saturday, so it’s safe to assume that Mom’s just doing whatever she thinks is right.
Again.
I lift my arms sideways when Julian’s assistant, Melina, comes around to get measurements of my bust, arms, and shoulders.
“How long has she been planning this charity ball anyway?” I ask Julian, only because he now knows that my mom hasn’t discussed shit with me about this event.
So, it shouldn’t exactly be a big deal if I get some information from him.
And, because he works so closely with her, I’m pretty sure he knows just about everything pertaining this ball.
He looks up from his sketchbook and furrows his brows.
“A month ago, I believe.” He sets the pencil he’s holding, behind his left ear.
“She proposed the idea to me and the team, and said that it’d be a great opportunity for us to launch part of our newest collection as a teaser – sort of – to gauge the elites’ reactions to it, get their feedbacks on it, etcetera. ”
This time when Mave and I lock gazes, it’s him who makes a face.
How predictable of Mom to deceit people by finding ways to promote her brand whilst also appearing cool and generous in the process.
“And…” I bring my arms down, and touch my legs together when Melina crouches in front of me before wrapping the measuring tape around my hips. “What collection are we displaying at the event?”
“The winter-wear one,” Julian says. “So, we’re going to introduce the neutral colors for now, and keep the pastel ones for the full release promo.”
“Gotcha.” I sigh when Melina finally steps back and jots down the last of my measurements, then walks over to Julian and hands him the cream notepad.
I relax my stance and turn around, then settle into the white accent chair that’s next to me. The soft fabric of my floral, flowy dress sighs against my skin as I cross my legs and place my elbows on my thighs, then look around the beige-themed room.
Three of the members of Julian’s team are working on sewing machines that are stationed on the far left of the room.
The furniture in here is elegantly muted, accented with rose gold to give it a chic appearance.
There’s a little coffee and snack area to the right, along with a trial cabin next to it.
Julian’s worktable is a massive mess of papers, pencils, iPads, sketchpads, fabrics, and threads, exactly in the center of the room. The light in here is bright as shit, and kinda makes the ivory faux carpet appear washed out.
This fitting/designing room is one of the six workrooms in the HQ – each one of said rooms belonging to a head stylist. Julian is one of them, and has his own team, just like the others.
But, because I’ve known him the longest and trust his sense of style, he’s the only one who gets to design my dresses for events and such.
“So, sugar,” he shifts in his plush chair and gives me a grin, “what are we thinking in terms of the vibes for this one?”
Mave looks bored as he glances between me and his watch every five seconds, and Melina once again has a notepad and a pen in her hands, probably so that she can write down my vision for this event’s attire.
“Mom didn’t set a theme or something?” I ask. She doesn’t always do that, but occasionally, she’ll go over-the-top with the dress code bullshit.
Julian shakes his head. “No, not this time. Remember: it’s supposed to be a charity thing, so if there’s a dress code of some sort, it might get a bit confusing for the guests.”
“And here I thought she’d at least turn it into a masquerade,” I quip.
Mave chuckles. “Announcing winter-wear during a masquerade ball would sure have been…something. I’m distressed we won’t be witnessing history being made,” he muses.
Julian scoffs. “You two are crazy; masquerade balls are cliché as fuck. What are we, a mafia circle or something?” He then claps his hands once – loud enough to make me jerk a little in surprise.
“Alright, back to your dress,” he tells me, then pulls his pencil out from behind his ear.
“Ideas? Notes? Requests? Throw them my way.”
I hum as I lean back in my chair, and Mave tracks my every move as he tries, and fails, at not noticing the way my dress slides off my thighs as I shift.
I obviously didn’t do it for him, so I try to ignore his stare, and instead, give Julian my complete attention.
“Yellow charmeuse, fitted, floor-length,” I list, then click my tongue. “Spaghetti straps and…a super low-cut back so that my tattoo gets the spotlight it deserves.”
Julian blinks at me for a few seconds, then clears his throat and says, “All of that sounds perf, but yellow charmeuse?” He blinks again. “Yellow?”
I try not to grin. “Cyber yellow,” I specify, then purse my lips when Mave not-so-discreetly coughs behind a fist.
Julian looks like he’s about to get on the table and jump headfirst into me.
“I…” He runs a hand over his slender face in order to calm himself down.
“Babe, Cigs, darling. Honey…” He slides forward in his chair.
“I love your sense of fashion, I do. And you, like, always dress sexy, but…” He licks his lips.
“Yellow? Fucking yellow?! That’s the color of Homer Simpson’s cock, the color of sun-vomit!
It’s so not the kind of color people wear dresses of on formal events! ”
“But it’s such a happy color,” I object. “And I want people to know just how ecstatic I am to be a part of this…generous occasion.”
“Ohmygod,” Julian mumbles. “If you mention that color to me again, I swear on everything I hold dear, I’ll jump out of the window.”
I look at the window behind him, then click my tongue. “Not to be a downer, but that’s too small a space for you to fit into. It’ll be better if you just make me my yellow dress instead.”
“Cigs,” he says in warning.
“Look at the stars, look how they shine for you. And everything you do, yeah, they were all yellow…” I sing – or try to, anyway, and make sure to stretch the last word out a little too loudly.
Julian rubs both his hands over his face. “Jesus, take me now.”
This time, I can’t hold it in; I laugh.
Mave and Melina break down with me, and so do the rest of the stylists on the other side of the room.
“Please don’t ever, and I mean ever, sing again,” Mave tells me between bouts of laughter, then grabs a spare chair from his right before settling in it. “Jesus fucking Christ, Nettie; what the fuck?” He continues to laugh.
Julian looks baffled by the cackles that fill the room, then raises his hands in surrender. “You people are dicks,” he states matter-of-factly. “Hairy, circumcised, herpes-infested dicks.”
“You’re really referencing that anatomy in abundance today,” I tell him. “First with the Simpson, and now us. Is this going to be a thing now? Should I research dick jokes for our future interactions?”
He points a finger at me. “You little–” he stops when there’s a knock on the door.
We all look in its direction, just as Mave gets to his feet, slides his chair away, and opens the door.
“Ma’am,” he says civilly, no hint of a reaction on his face, and steps back.
My back straightens, and goosebumps rise throughout my body as my mother walks into the room with an air of unfiltered arrogance.
Her long blonde hair is tied into a high, no-bullshit bun.
Her black, full-sleeved bodycon dress fits her like it’s made specifically for her lithe figure – because it is made just for her.
The classic gold jewelry she’s wearing – ruby-studded teardrop earrings, a torque, a cuff bracelet, and a couple of cocktail rings on each of her index fingers – looks oddly prominent as the lights in the room reflect strongly against them.
Years of working in the fashion industry has kept Mom’s standards for physical appearances and self-care intact, but fine lines and wrinkles still mar her pale skin, making her seem exactly her age.
Steven walks in a second later, gives Mave a curt nod, and stands next to him – his eyes focused solely on my mom.
His long, black hair is pulled up in a too-tight bun, and his clean-shaven jaw is set hard, while the expression on his face is basically poker.
Mom’s nude pumps press onto the soft carpet as she comes to a stop, then glances around the room before locking those dark eyes with mine.
I get to my feet and take a step towards her, then give her a well-practiced plastic smile. “Mom,” I say in greeting.
She leans in, and her and I share our usual we’re-in-public air kiss routine.
What happens behind closed doors in Miranda Adler’s estate, stays within the walls of said estate. No one needs to know about any of it, least of all Lure’s employees.
When I move away from Mom, I see that Mave’s jaw is clenched as he continues to stare at the back of her head, and that his posture is way too stiff to not come off as questionable. I know he despises her just as much as I do, but this – this just won’t do. Especially when we have an audience.