Chapter 28
Chapter Twenty-Eight
FASHION SHOW
Celeste
Once Rosa leaves, Tally, Olivia and I haul the last of my cardboard boxes into my living area—our fingertips raw from the edges, sweat beading on our foreheads—I collapse onto a plush velvet sofa the color of sea foam.
I wander into my new kitchen, where afternoon sunlight streams through floor-to-ceiling windows, illuminating pristine white oak cabinets with gold hardware that gleams like jewelry.
My fingers trace the cool veining in the Carrara marble countertops, brush against the professional-grade La Cornue Grand Palais range with six burners I'll get some amazing use out of since I love cooking, and pull open the massive sub-zero refrigerator door to find it meticulously stocked with color-coded containers of pre-cut fruit, imported cheeses, and a bottle of Dom Pérignon nestled between cartons of oat milk.
I get out the bottle of Dom and the cork hits the ceiling with a satisfying pop, sending a wisp of champagne mist into the air.
"Woo hoo!" I squeal, watching the Dom Pérignon foam over the neck of the bottle.
"Fashion show time!" I run my fingers over a silky Valentino dress, then caress the buttery leather of Prada boots.
A Chanel tweed jacket feels substantial, important somehow.
I'm Vivian from Pretty Woman, minus the awkward blow-job-during-I-Love-Lucy scene, just pure wide-eyed wonder at fabrics I've only ever seen behind glass. The price tags alone would cover three months of my mortgage. I twirl, watching the clothes sway on their designer hangers, mentally calculating how to smuggle this treasure trove out when our year is up. These cashmere sweaters and hand-stitched gowns could fund my screenwriting career for another two years at least if I put them on Poshmark. Not that I would ever be able to part with them. I’d kiss, date and marry these clothes if I could.
Three bottles of Dom split between us three later, I'm wobbling in front of my beveled full-length mirror, my reflection blurred at the edges.
"Pass me that—that thing," I point, nearly toppling sideways. Olivia tosses over a mass of leather that unfolds into pants as buttery as they are black. I struggle into them, my champagne-clumsy fingers fumbling with the zipper. "God, these cost more than my monthly mortgage,” I whisper, running my palm down my thigh. I pull on some Prada thigh-high boots in black with sky-high heels and a buttery Chanel cashmere sweater in burgundy and a chunky Dolce and Gabbana necklace created with different colored gemstones - rubies, emeralds, diamonds, pearls and light blue sapphires. Plus a pair of sky blue diamond tear-drop earrings. No, those don’t work - something more dramatic.
A pair of Paul Morellli 18K white gold earrings with aquamarine drops look amazing.
A red-soled Jimmy Choo heel dangles from Tally's finger. "Try these."
My foot slides in like Cinderella's, though my ankles immediately betray me.
I grab the closet door, laughing. "Oh!" My fingers brush feathers.
I pull down a wide-brimmed hat the size of a deep-dish pizza, its stiff ivory straw woven into an intricate lattice pattern.
The brim dips low, casting my face in shadow like a protective eclipse.
It's one of those enormous statement pieces you see perched atop socialites at horse races like the Preakness or Kentucky Derby—a fascinator, I think it's called?
"Kentucky Derby realness," Olivia slurs, her phone camera clicking rapidly.
"Those poor horses though," I mumble, suddenly somber. "Did you know they—"
"Try this instead!" Tally interrupts, shoving a tiny purse into my hands that weighs more than it should. "Diamonds," she whispers reverently.
I reach for a cream Chanel suit, its gold-flecked bouclé wool catching the light.
Pearl buttons and clean lines whisper old money.
Champagne still fizzing in my veins, I add a hot pink fedora that makes Olivia snort with laughter.
I throw on real pearls, then grab a Pollock-splattered Hermès Birkin.
In the mirror, the conservative suit transforms beneath the riot of color.
I swap the fedora for a newsboy cap, then back again.
This closet isn't filled with designer labels—it's filled with versions of myself I never knew existed.
For the first time, I'm not just wearing clothes.
I'm developing a style. It feels electric.
"JEANS!" The word explodes from me like a confetti cannon.
"Because apparently living in Chanel and Prada is like trying to breathe underwater.
Though—" I strike a ridiculous Vogue pose, wobbling on one foot, "—imagine me sashaying into a writer's meeting looking like I've been marinated in money! Iris would probably choke on her kombucha. She’d be like ‘Celeste!
Did you rob Anna Wintour's closet? Here's a promotion!
'" I pirouette and nearly crash into a lamp.
Oops. Day drinking—who even am I? Not the same girl who used to iron her Target t-shirts.
Not the girl whose idea of luxury was splurging on name-brand cereal.
Now I'm Mrs. Billionaire with a closet bigger than my old condo. Maybe this bizarro-world Celeste will actually trick some fancy-pants agent into thinking my screenplay deserves a Palm D’Or.
Stranger things have happened in this timeline, right?
I shimmy into crystal-studded Libertine pants that hug like a second skin, then swap them for flower-embroidered Valentinos.
A black Prada silk top, houndstooth cap, and red diamond accessories complete the first look, with combat boots that feel like my old Docs but scream money.
I spin before the mirror, grinning, before switching to a Dior tee, thigh-high Louboutins, and a chunky Prada cardigan.
A pink bucket hat makes me laugh—all wrong.
Black works better. I finish with my new favorite gemstone necklace and brown diamond drop earrings.
Olivia and Tally bombard me with hangers, their laughter punctuating each toss.
Silks slide through my fingers, sundresses bloom with colors I'd never dare wear before, and sweater dresses promise warmth for the coming winter chill.
I slip into a lavender cashmere coat—Dolce, they whisper reverently—over Prada jeans that somehow make my legs look endless.
A pair of Louboutins add inches I don't need but desperately want.
When I fasten the brown diamonds at my ears and sling the red Birkin over my shoulder, the mirror shows someone I barely recognize.
A stranger with my face, wearing wealth like she was born to it.
The girls are already holding up more treasures: a khaki Dior trench with tortoiseshell buttons the size of silver dollars, and twin Alexander McQueen coats—one in royal red with gold military-inspired epaulets, the other in chocolate brown with intricate embroidery along the collar—identical to the ones I'd seen Princess Kate wearing during her winter tour of Scotland, her hair gleaming against the rich fabrics as she waved to adoring crowds.
I'm upteen glasses deep into the champagne, sprawled across silk sheets, surrounded by designer labels I once only glimpsed in magazines. The ocean crashes outside my window—my window—and somewhere downstairs, Rosa hums while folding laundry that costs more than my mortgage. Her presence feels like a life raft I’ll need if the worst happens and my mother’s chemo fails.
The bedside clock reads 4:52. Dinner's at 6.
I slide open the walk-in closet door and run my fingers across fabrics that whisper against my skin.
Nothing too formal, nothing desperate. I catch myself wondering if Max might notice a particular blue dress that matches my eyes, then immediately scoff at the thought.
The man barely acknowledges my existence.
I'm dressing for Olivia and Tally, I decide, pulling the blue dress from its hanger anyway.
I glance at my watch and turn to Tally and Olivia.
"Dinner in twenty minutes. What do you think?
" I hold up a greenish-blue Givenchy cable knit mini-dress with a scoop neck that dips just low enough to be interesting without being scandalous.
Next to it, I've laid out a pair of coveted jeweled Manolo open toed sandals with a three-inch heel.
The mini-dress hits mid-thigh, perfect for showing off the legs I've been religiously toning since high school track, and the color brings out the stormy blue-green of my eyes in a way that even expensive makeup can't achieve.
“Love it, girl! Now get into the shower and get ready for dinner,” Tally says with a giggle. “Pretty boy won’t take his eyes off your legs.”
The hot water of the shower does nothing to calm my nerves.
I twist my hair into a messy topknot, grateful that my wedding-day eyelash extensions means I can leave my makeup natural—just a whisper of rose-gold shimmer on my lids, a swipe of peachy blush across my cheekbones, and a dab of clear gloss that makes my lips look like I've just bitten them.
My fingers tremble slightly as I fasten the Dolce statement necklace, its colorful gems catching the light as I add the matching bracelet and slip in the pale blue diamond earrings.
I slip on the Manolos, their crystal-encrusted straps catching the light as I slide my feet into sandals.
The four-inch heels transform my posture instantly, and the open toes reveal my fresh pedicure—a pale pink that matches the blush undertones of the shoes themselves.
The mirror reflects back someone I barely recognize. Maybe it's the champagne buzz, but I feel like I'm watching someone else step into a fairy tale.
Except this Cinderella's Prince Charming wishes she'd turn back into a pumpkin.
Whatever.