Chapter 35 G-L-A-M-O-R-O-U-S
G-L-A-M-O-R-O-U-S
Harlee
It’s late Saturday afternoon, and instead of being hunched over a desk convincing myself that sleep deprivation is a personality trait, I’m wrapped in a plush white robe at the Orion Hotel, champagne sweating in my hand like this is a perfectly reasonable way to end a term.
Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, snow drifts down over Chicago—slow, quiet, patient. The skyline looks softened, like the city’s been wrapped in cotton. Up here, the noise feels far away. Muted.
Inside, everything is warm.
Wynter and I have been pampered within an inch of our lives. August’s idea of a finals celebration. Spa. Steam. Silence. The kind of luxury that makes your nervous system exhale before your brain can argue.
I passed my last final Thursday night. Not barely. Not with crossed fingers and prayers. I passed. And for the first time in months, my body believes it.
A full month without lectures, labs, or proving I deserve to be in rooms that still feel borrowed. Graduation is close enough to taste now. That part is real. Settled.
The suite hums with motion. Flat irons hiss. Brushes flick. Laughter skips across the high ceilings. The air smells like citrus mist, setting spray, and something richer underneath—money, maybe, or just confidence aerosolized.
Chicago’s top glam squad moves around us with easy precision. Calm. Focused. Like they do this every weekend for women who don’t overthink.
Wynter, obviously, looks at home. She always does. Like the room rearranged itself to accommodate her.
“Hey queens!” she sings into her phone, already glowing. “It’s your girl, Wynter Maddox, and my girl SlayT!”
Tiera flashes a peace sign mid-curl without missing a beat. Wynter’s platinum wig falls in loose waves, old-Hollywood but heat-touched, silk against her shoulders. Against her skin, it’s unreal. She catches her reflection and grins.
“Damn,” she says. “I look good.”
I laugh under my breath. “That is not new information.”
She pivots the phone toward me. “Say hey to my followers, Harlee!”
I smile. Small wave. Polite. I don’t duck, but I don’t perform either.
Wynter slides effortlessly into gala mode—charity, research, something close to her heart—her voice shifting from playful to polished like a switch she was born knowing how to flip. She thanks her fans, drops a wink about Dior and Zanottis, then ends the live like she just wrapped a concert set.
The room exhales.
My nerves spike, but not the way they used to.
They aren’t about how I look.I know how I look.
The nerves are about movement. About stairs. About champagne flutes and crowded rooms and my lifelong beef with gravity.
“Okay,” I say, nodding at Wynter’s hair. “She’s a mood.”
She flips a curl. “I know. But don’t get it twisted—auburn had her era. She’ll rise again.”
Her eyes slide to me, sharp and affectionate. “And don’t downplay yourself. This is Old Hollywood on you. August is gonna short-circuit.”
“I just don’t want to fall,” I say. “Publicly.”
Truth is, this wasn’t the plan. We were supposed to do nails and gossip. Then August rerouted the whole day like a man who doesn’t understand moderation. Country-club spa. Penthouse suite. Glam squad.
Fantasy, activated.
That spa alone nearly took me out. Stone fountains. Whispering attendants. A massage that reached ancestral levels. I swear I met my great-grandmother and she told me to unclench my jaw.
I tug the robe tighter, grounding myself. “It’s just… a lot. The dress. The people. I feel like I’m walking into something bigger than a party.”
Wynter clinks her glass against mine. “You earned this. And if that fine-ass man wants to spoil you, let him.”
I sip my water like it’s tequila. “I’m not trying to be arm candy. I want to network. I want people to remember my name without attaching it to his.”
She gives me a look. She knows exactly what I’m saying.
“You didn’t get here by accident,” she says. “You belong in rooms before you open your mouth. After that, it’s just math.”
That steadies something in my chest.
The stylist behind me hums approval. “Just own the heels, baby. Nobody remembers a wobble.”
“I once ran for the train in heels, ripped my pants, and had no panties,” I say. “So the bar is truly underground.”
The room explodes. Wynter nearly chokes.
“That’s not a malfunction,” someone says. “That’s a legacy.”
My phone buzzes. Group chat.
The Bad Bitch Consortium
Lori: Clear heels or metallic gold?
Bestie: Metallic. Obviously.
Lori: *crying laughing emoji* What happened to Jax Ramirez? You never filled us in on how the date went?
Bestie: What about him? He’s still in rotation. He’s just on the road.
Lori: Hilarious. How was the date?
Bestie: The date was cute.
Lori: Score any bases? I'm conducting research. *eye glasses wearing emoji*
Bestie: DUH. TF?
Lori: Eggplant?
Lori: Anaconda?
Lori: Shrimpy?
Lori: Pencil?
Bestie: Oh Def a Mac Truck
Lori: Yay!
Bestie: W.A.P.
Lori: He looks like the type to have a big dick. Have you seen his ass? heart eyes emoji
Bestie: You really could bounce a quarter off that thing. Trust me. Winking Eye Emoji
I hide my face, laughing. Loud. Free. These women are chaos and calibration all at once.
The silk skims my hips as the stylist adjusts the gown, and I catch my reflection long enough to register the obvious.
Oh. Yeah.
I look like trouble—quiet, well-dressed trouble. The kind people underestimate until it’s too late.
The mirror confirms what my jeans have been telling the truth about for years—my ass is absolutely doing its job tonight.
My nerves flicker again, but it’s not insecurity. It’s anticipation.
I’m not scared of the room.I just need a second to enter it.
Zane sweeps in like fashion royalty. “Gown’s ready.”
Wynter disappears first. Returns moments later in black velvet and satin with a slit that could cause diplomatic incidents. The room loses its mind. Cheering. Whistling. Even in couture, she drops into a squat and shakes ass, new look same spirit.
“Your turn,” she says, glowing.
I inhale.
Beyond the glass, snow keeps falling—steady, inevitable—while inside everything feels held. Warm lights. Silk. Breath caught between moments.
I straighten my shoulders, not because I’m pretending—but because I remember who I am.
I earned this night. I earned this dress. And if I trip, I’ll do it in silk.
The doors open.
I step out.
The gown settles against my body like it knows me. Smooth green silk, fluid and deliberate, cool at first touch and warming where it skims my hips. It catches the light softly—not flashy, not begging. Confidence, not spectacle.
Silence.
Then Wynter exhales, slow and reverent.
“Bitch.”