8. #3
The makeup artist—Lana—tilts my chin up with gentle fingers. "You're going to look stunning tonight," she says, voice warm like she means it.
"Thank you," I reply automatically.
Lana starts with moisturizer, then primer, hands moving with practiced care. I watch myself in the mirror while she works, watching my face become something smoother, something brighter, something more composed.
Another woman—Jules—moves behind me and begins sectioning my hair.
Vivian paces in the background, answering emails, murmuring into her phone like the world is always on fire and she's the only one holding the hose.
I stare at my own reflection and try not to think about the fact that this is my first major banquet without Rodney beside me.
The idea makes my stomach twist again.
It's not that I need him.
It's that the absence creates space.
And space invites questions.
My phone buzzes somewhere on the vanity. I don't move.
Vivian checks it for me, eyes flicking to the screen with a speed that would impress a hawk.
"Agents confirmed route," she says. "Nothing unusual."
"Great," I murmur.
Lana dusts powder under my eyes. "Breathe for me, Naomi."
I realize I've been holding my breath.
I inhale slowly, forcing my shoulders down.
That's when the knock comes.
Not the doorbell.
A knock at the bedroom door—soft, hesitant.
Vivian pauses mid-pace.
Jules stills behind me.
For half a second, everyone's attention shifts toward the sound like it's a change in weather.
"Come in," Vivian calls.
The door opens.
A blonde woman steps inside with a garment bag in one hand and a clipboard in the other. She looks young, maybe late twenties. Polished but not comfortable yet. The kind of nervous that hides itself behind professionalism.
"Hi," she says, voice careful. "Mrs. Housner? I'm Taylor."
Vivian's eyes sharpen. "Taylor."
"Yes," Taylor says quickly. "I'm—um. I'll be taking over as your personal stylist. Amanda's been reassigned."
My brows lift, small. "Oh."
I keep my tone light. Neutral.
"I wasn't aware there would be a change," I add.
Taylor's smile is strained. "I know. It was... last-minute."
Vivian takes a step forward, already in control. "Okay. We're in the middle of glam. We can talk wardrobe after."
Taylor's eyes flick to Lana. "Are you almost finished? I just... I need a second with Mrs. Housner."
The request lands strange.
A second with me.
Alone.
My posture tightens in the chair.
Vivian hesitates, then looks at me like she's asking permission without asking.
I swallow.
"Sure," I say.
Vivian nods once, then gestures briskly. "Everyone out for a moment."
Lana sets her brush down. Jules steps back. They file out quietly, as if they're leaving a hospital room.
Vivian pauses at the door last.
Her eyes hold mine for a beat, a silent check-in.
Then she leaves too, closing the door behind her.
The click feels louder than it should.
Taylor shifts her weight, still holding the clipboard like it's an anchor.
She takes a breath.
"I want to say first," she begins, voice thin, "I'm sorry."
My stomach drops.
Not because I know what's coming.
Because I don't.
And that's worse.
"Okay," I say carefully.
Taylor's gaze flicks to the mirror, then away. Like looking at me directly is too hard.
"I spoke with President Housner," she says.
The words slice through the room.
President Housner.
My fingers tighten on the armrest of the chair.
Taylor continues quickly, like she's trying to get through a speech without choking.
"He gave me... guidelines," she says. "Strict guidelines."
My throat tightens. "Guidelines?"
Taylor swallows. "He said your measurements are currently—" she glances down at the clipboard, then reads it out loud like she's reciting a sentence, "—thirty-two, twenty-three, thirty-five."
My face stays calm.
Inside, something recoils.
Taylor rushes on. "And I'm under strict instruction that those numbers are not to go past that."
I stare at myself in the mirror.
"Not to go past that," I repeat softly.
Taylor nods fast. "Yes. And—" she exhales, the nerves finally slipping into her voice, "—if you can't fit a garment or if your measurements have changed, I'm instructed to... to notify Mr. Housner and you would not attend the event for that day."
My stomach turns.
It's not even the punishment that shocks me.
It's the control.
The casual, bureaucratic cruelty of it.
Like my presence is conditional.
I let out a slow breath through my nose.
I don't let my face change.
Poker face.
"Oh," I say. "Alright."
The word is small.
My voice is polite.
My insides are a storm.
Taylor's eyes flicker with relief and dread at the same time—relief that I'm not yelling, dread that I'm taking it too calmly.
"And," she adds, softer now, "because events are—so frequent—" she gestures vaguely, "—I'll need to take your measurements each day and weigh you. He wants documentation and he'll sign off on it."
For a second, I don't hear the end of the sentence.
The room narrows.
Weigh you.
Daily.
Sign off.
My husband.
My president.
My warden.
I feel something cold settle low in my belly.
It isn't fear.
It's humiliation, sharp and clean.
It's grief.
It's anger trying not to show its teeth.
I blink once.
Slowly.
And I keep my voice gentle because that's the only weapon I'm allowed to carry.
"Okay," I say again.
Taylor's shoulders sag like she's been holding her breath.
"I'm sorry," she repeats, almost pleading now. "I really am. I just—I don't have a choice."
Neither do I, I guess.
But I don't say it.
I swallow.
"Thank you for telling me," I say quietly giving her a smile.
Taylor's eyes shine for a second like she might cry, then she looks away.
"I'll—um," she says. "I'll bring the gown options in a minute."
Before I can respond, there's a knock at the door.
Vivian's voice on the other side.
"Naomi. We need to move. Hair has to keep going now."
Taylor flinches like she's been caught doing something wrong.
I don't move.
I sit in the chair, hands folded, spine straight.
I can feel the weight of the conversation sitting on my shoulders heavier than any dress.
Vivian steps inside immediately, eyes scanning me.
She notices everything—the air in the room, the way Taylor won't meet anyone's eyes.
"What happened?" Vivian asks, low.
"Nothing," I say.
It's a lie.
It's always a lie.
Vivian's gaze holds mine, sharp and assessing, but she doesn't push.
Not now.
Not when there are people outside waiting to paint me into something acceptable.
"Okay," Vivian says finally. "We're on the clock."
The team files back in like nothing happened.
Brushes lift.
Hair clips snap.
Powder dusts.
The room fills with movement.
And I sit there while they make me beautiful, feeling the exact moment my mood drops through the floor.
The car ride to the benefit is a lesson in restraint.
Not because the streets are crowded or the route is complicated—Vivian's route planning could move an army through rush hour without breaking a sweat.
Because I'm sitting in the backseat in a gown that feels an inch too tight.
Taylor chose the dress.
Of course she did.
A deep, elegant navy that reads sophisticated under warm lighting, with a neckline that's just modest enough to be "appropriate" and just low enough to remind me I'm still being watched. The fabric is structured and unforgiving at the waist—beautiful in the way a corset is beautiful.
The sleeves are short, barely grazing my upper arms. Great for photographs.
Terrible for cold air.
Vivian sits across from me, tablet in hand, eyes scanning her emails.
I stare out the window, watching the city drift by in glittering fragments.
We pull up to the venue and the world shifts.
The moment the door opens, the sound hits first—laughter, camera shutters, the murmur of money congratulating itself. Warm light spills out from the entrance like a welcome and a warning.
An agent opens my door.
"Ma'am."
I step out.
Flashbulbs pop.
My smile appears on cue.
It always does.
Inside, the lobby is dressed in white and gold. Huge arrangements of lilies and hydrangeas line the hallway, their scent sweet enough to be almost cloying.
Hope is the easiest thing to sell.
Vivian walks half a step behind me, the way she always does—close enough to control the moment, far enough to make it look like I'm leading.
"Remember," she murmurs, "you do your rounds, then you're seated at Table 12. You speak after Dr. Halbrook."
I nod without looking at her.
My fingers tighten around the small clutch in my hand. My other hand rests lightly at my side, bare arm exposed to the chill creeping in each time the doors open.
I hate being here without Rodney.
Not because I need him.
Because without him, everyone's eyes linger longer.
People look at me like they're trying to read the space where my husband should be.
Like they're calculating what it means that he isn't.
I move forward anyway, smile steady, chin lifted.
A woman in a sequined gown approaches with her husband, both of them wearing that glossy donor look—perfect teeth, perfect posture, perfect sincerity.
"Mrs. Housner," she coos. "We're so honored."
"I'm very glad to be here," I reply, voice warm and practiced. "This cause matters."
It does.
That's the part that makes it worse.
For the next twenty minutes, I shake hands and speak in clean sentences that don't reveal anything. I ask people about their work, their foundations, their commitments, and they respond like I'm a symbol instead of a woman.
Then, as I turn toward the main ballroom, I see her.
Margot Wellesley.
It isn't her beauty that makes the room shift.
It's her ease.
Some people walk through spaces like they're guest-starring. Margot walks through spaces like she's been written into them.
She's with an older woman—her mother, if the resemblance is anything to go by. Both of them are immaculate. Both of them smile like they've never been told no.
Margot's gaze lands on me.