Chapter 8
MADDIE
“I’m pretty sure he wiggled out of his carrier just to show off that Louis Vuitton necktie,” I say, watching Snorty trot ahead of us in the glittering Las Vegas retail arcade.
“Oh, I agree,” says Antoine.
It’s been only an hour since I've seen Rio for the first time in years.
And our encounter awakened all the mixed feelings I’ve held for him all that time.
Infatuation. Longing. Adoration. And an emotion I can’t even put a name to.
Back when I was a kid, Rio made me feel special. Like I was his fated, secret princess. And all I had to do was grow up, and then he’d make me queen of his magic castle.
I held tight to the fantasy that never materialized for too many years. Now, it’s time to take Steve’s advice and treat this weekend ike a luxury vacation.
And my interactions with Rio like a job.
Antoine guides me toward a discreet storefront with no name. Just a frosted glass door. It slides open automatically as we approach.
A man in a beautifully tailored uniform stands waiting with a silver tray of champagne flutes.
“Welcome,” he says, offering one to me.
“Thanks. I don’t drink. Especially before noon.”
Antoine presses a glass into my hand anyway. “Then just hold it. It completes the aesthetic.”
Of course it does.
Inside, the shop looks more like a private museum than a store. Soft lighting. Velvet walls. The air smells like jasmine and exclusivity.
An impeccably put-together woman steps in. She wears a sleek black suit hugging her figure like a second skin.
“Veronica,” Antoine says, greeting her with a nod. “This is Madison Smith. We need a wardrobe ready by four. Well, at least a few items. The rest can be delivered at midnight for tomorrow.”
Her eyes sweep over me in one efficient pass, laser-focused. I feel like she’s counting my pores, assessing my bone structure, and calculating my credit score all in a single glance.
“A pleasure, Ms. Smith,” she says, her voice cool and professional. “Please, come to the atelier.”
She leads us into a jewel-box room with emerald wallpaper and antique paintings.
“Where are the clothes?” I whisper to Antoine. The racks are empty.
“This is a different kind of shop,” he says.
As if predicting just what he wants, Veronica reaches into a sleek black drawer and removes an iPad.
“Wardrobe creation time,” Antoine announces. “Step on the riser.”
“The what?”
He points to a round marble platform in the center of the room. “Up you go. So I can see the lines.”
Snorty yips encouragement, his little paws digging into the plush carpet as he settles onto his haunches to watch.
I step onto the cool marble, feeling slightly ridiculous. Like a prize heifer on display at the county fair.
Antoine positions his stylus over the iPad screen with the concentration of a surgeon.
“Try not to move. Art is happening.”
I do my best impression of a statue, with my arms hanging awkwardly at my sides.
Finally, Antoine stops sketching. “Veronica, bring in the structure pieces. We’ll need to choose the armor for the press conference tonight.”
“Yes, Mr. LaRue.”
Armor. I like that word. It feels accurate. I’m going into battle against the tabloids, Henry Lemon, and Rio’s reputation. I’ll need all the protection I can get.
A moment later, Veronica returns carrying an armful of jackets that look like they belong in a magazine, not on my body. Antoine waves his hand for me to step down.
“Try these,” he says, picking out three jackets with quick, confident taps on the hangers.
I slip on the first one, a soft ivory blazer that feels like butter against my skin. It has these little hidden pockets. And a cut that somehow makes my shoulders look bolder, my waist narrower.
“It’s nice,” I say, smoothing the lapel.
“It is not merely ‘nice,’” Antoine corrects. “It is authoritative. You are the stabilizing force. The white knight.”
He hands me the second—charcoal gray with a high collar that frames my face.
“This makes my eyes pop,” I murmur, looking in the mirror. I didn't even know clothes could do that. I look more sophisticated.
“And the third,” Antoine says, handing me a sleek black number with subtle stitching details that signify its expense.
I slide my arms in. The fabric has a weight to it, a substance. I find myself standing straighter.
For a split second, I imagine walking into that press conference like I belong at Rio's side.
Antoine circles me like a fashion shark, touching his chin and squinting at each jacket.
“The ivory for the press conference,” he finally declares. “The charcoal for arrival photos.”
He turns to Veronica. “But the foundation is wrong. Her pants....” He waves a hand dismissively at my legs. “They scream ‘faculty lounge.’ Burn them.”
Veronica nods as if this is a perfectly reasonable request.
She disappears and returns seconds later with a pair of dark denim jeans and a pair of nude stilettos.
“Try these,” Antoine commands. “And this.” He hands me a white silk top that curiously hugs my curves.
I retreat to the dressing room.
When I pull the jeans on, I have to suck in a breath. They are tight. Not uncomfortable but fitted. They hug hips I usually try to hide (I'm a 'big booty' girl) and taper down to my ankles.
Then I unbutton my blouse, starting at the throat, and slip on the silky top.
It’s not exactly low cut, but the way it’s made accentuates the shape of my breasts.
Maybe a little too much. But compared to some of the outfits I’ve seen these Las Vegas women wear, it’s quite tame.
I slip on the heels, which add three inches to my height and force my posture to shift.
I step out.
Antoine nods, a slow, satisfied smile spreading across his face. “There. Now you look like a woman who could break a rockstar’s heart.”
I look in the mirror. The teacher is gone. The woman staring back looks taller, sharper. Dangerous.
“Wear it out of the boutique,” Antoine says. “We need to break the shoes in before the rehearsal.”
“And the dress?” Antoine asks Veronica, ignoring my wobble as I adjust to the heels.
“It will be ready for tonight,” she promises.
Antoine says goodbye to Veronica, and ushers me outside the store.
The air in the arcade feels thinner, less rarefied than inside the atelier.
“Well, that was interesting,” I say, smoothing the fancy top over my midriff. “How did you find out about Veronica and her shop? There wasn’t even a sign on the door.”
“It’s my job,” he says simply.
“Job? Did you major in ‘luxury’ at college?” I'm only half joking.
Antoine smiles, slowing his pace as Snorty stops to sniff a potted orchid.
“I am a consultant to the rich and famous. I specialize in image management and lifestyle orchestration. When a celebrity needs discretion, reinvention, or a flawless public moment, I’m the one they call.”
“But how did you get that job?”
“If I tell you, I’d have to kill you,” he says with a little gleam in his eye.
I laugh, but the sound is cut short as my stomach rumbles. Loudly.
“Hungry?”
“I left the house early,” I admit, pressing a hand to my stomach. “I was too nervous to eat breakfast.”
“Well then. Lunch is in order. We cannot build an empire on an empty stomach.”
Snorty yips once, as if backing him up.
Antoine gestures toward the restaurant at the end of the arcade.
“Come,” he says, eyeing my new jeans approvingly. “Food now. Media prep later. Rio won't know what hit him.”