Chapter 18 Ella
ELLA
Iduck into the designer store through a back entrance, crossing my fingers.
The paparazzi followed Asher’s car when he left the penthouse, and then my car left ten minutes later.
I don’t think they caught on to the ruse, but who knows what the morning will bring.
There is a certifiable frenzy surrounding us since the news broke that Asher Langford is off the market, and the scale of it is much bigger than we expected.
For better or worse, the board is certainly getting the publicity they wanted.
And as a team, we’re trying to find the best way through the frenzy.
“Ms. Hale,” the store manager says, greeting me with a smile. “We’re so happy to have you and your team here with us. Our staff is putting together some favorites and recommendations for you.”
“Thank you.” I smile warmly, following her into the main part of the store where the rest of the team is filing in.
Emily really pulled out all the stops for today’s shopping.
We’ve learned quickly that one of the biggest topics surrounding me in the media isn’t always about normal things like who I am or what I do—it’s about what I’m wearing.
Matthew told me the leather laptop bag I was photographed with sold out yesterday, and so did several other bags in similar styles.
Same with the gray coat and skirt. Never in a million years would I have guessed that an outfit I wore to work would be photographed, thrown out into the world, and gobbled up by consumers trying to emulate that look.
It literally makes me dizzy to think about it.
“Excuse me, ladies,” the store manager says to some women browsing near the front of the store. “We will be closing down for a private shopping event in ten minutes. Thank you.”
Two of the women nod without issue, but three others scoff, clearly annoyed.
I casually browse, taking in the store’s inventory, a bit nervous for the fittings.
I like clothes and fashion, but it’s not a huge interest for me, so this is uncharted territory.
I usually wear what I like and what I look and feel good in, and that’s about as far as I think about it.
Now I have two stylists and Matthew discussing trends and fashion forecasts and debating things in fashion jargon I don’t even understand.
My nervousness only grows with each member of the PR team that shows up.
Apparently they’re all going to give their two cents on everything.
Each of them has mocked up ideas of a wardrobe to go along with the event they are in charge of planning, and they get to have a say in whether the clothes we pick are in line with their vision.
This first store is more for formal and public events, and the next few stores will be wardrobe staples and general clothes, which the team won’t need to be a part of, thank god.
But until then, I get to parade around in dresses and gowns my coworkers deem good enough or not for their respective events.
“Wait, are you her?” a voice to my left says. I turn and see one of the women from the front of the store looking at me. “You’re her. The woman dating Asher Langford.”
I just smile awkwardly and continue browsing.
“Arianna, Ember, come here!” the woman calls to her friends.
Shit. I turn the opposite way, but I can still hear the first woman tell her friends who I am.
“So, is the store closing . . . for you?” either Arianna or Ember asks me.
“Uh, yeah. Sorry about that.”
The three of them stare at me with barely veiled disdain.
“If you ladies are done, we would love to ring up your purchases for you,” the store manager says, coming to my rescue.
“Oh, no. I think we’re good,” the first woman says.
“I no longer want these.” She shoves an armful of clothes into the store manager’s arms and walks toward me.
“A bit of advice, sweetie?” she says to me.
“Enjoy all this while you can. You see, I know Asher. We grew up together. And our world is not your world. Do you know what happens to all the slutty little social climbers like you? They’re never accepted.
And even if they last a little while, the men who date them grow bored, and then the women fall from grace, laughed out of our world by those who actually belong in these social circles. ”
I blink at her, wondering if I heard what I thought I just heard. Not since college has someone been so scathing to me for no reason.
“Wow,” I say as sarcastically as possible. “That’s good to know. Thank you for telling me.”
The woman narrows her eyes. “Watch your back.”
“The store is closed, ladies,” Jenkins says, marching toward me. I think he caught the tail end of our fun little exchange. “Ms. Hale, the team is waiting for you over here.”
He leads me away from the three fuming women who are escorted out of the store by the manager. The three of them shriek at her about how they’ll never shop here again and that they’ll tell all their friends to stop shopping here.
“What was that?” Matthew asks as I move to stand by him.
“Adult high school, apparently.”
“Ugh, why do I miss all the drama? What did they say? Tell me in exact words.”
I laugh and give him the rundown while the team takes their seats.
Then the store’s staff members pull out a three-sided oversized mirror and a little platform for me to stand on.
It looks like those wedding dress stores where family and friends sit and watch a bride pick her wedding dress. I try not to think about it too hard.
Three hours later, I’m exhausted. I tried on dozens of outfits, dresses, gowns, and accessories, and every outfit was picked over, debated, and weighed against something else.
In the end, we only got about half of the outfits we needed, because the paparazzi did indeed somehow track us here, and with their flashing lights outside the windows, we decided to finish up early.
After being alerted to the paparazzi situation, Asher called Matthew and told him the store expeditions would be over, at least for now.
So instead, the remaining stores I was going to visit today are going to send representatives with racks of clothing to Asher’s penthouse tomorrow morning, and we’ll try everything on at home.
For once, I don’t fight Asher on his worrying, protective ways.
That actually sounds like a much better option.
I thank my team and the store staff members as we wrap up, before sneaking out the back door with Jenkins. A few paparazzi have found their way back here, and their cameras flash as I climb into the car. Emily and Matthew climb in behind me.
“That went well, I think,” Emily says as we drive away.
“Everything we picked is perfect,” Matthew agrees. “But we didn’t get nearly enough. And tomorrow morning will be tight, getting in all the fittings before Ella needs to start getting ready for the gala.”
“Hair and makeup are confirmed?” Emily asks him.
“Yes. They’ll be there at three.”
“The gala isn’t until seven,” I say.
“Yes, well, they both require ninety minutes, and they can’t overlap the entire time. Plus, we have to figure in dressing and travel time. The car is scheduled to leave at six. The red carpet starts at six-thirty, but we don’t want you and Asher there until seven.”
“Speaking of the red carpet,” Emily says. “You and Asher will be photographed together.”
“I assumed as much.”
“Yes, well, those pictures need to look . . . natural. We need to pass the two of you off as a real couple. That means each touch, gesture, and look needs to seem like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Like you’ve done it hundreds of times.”
“Oh.”
“Yes, oh. Sometimes photographers will even shout out things they want to see. They may shout for the two of you to kiss. That doesn’t mean you necessarily need to kiss, but we can’t have the two of you looking like an awkward prom couple.”
“I’ll schedule an emergency session with a posing professional,” Matthew says, whipping out his phone.
“A what?”
“A posing professional. Believe it or not there are people who specialize in helping you look your best on a red carpet. I’ll get one to the penthouse tonight to work with you, as well as you and Asher as a couple.”
“This gets weirder by the day.”
Matthew scoffs. “We’re only getting started, darling.”
“Your best side is definitely your left,” the posing professional, Rhonda, says to me as she looks me over.
She’s a nice but blunt woman in her forties or fifties, it’s hard to tell, and she leaves no room for nonsense in her work.
She’s set up a photography backdrop between the kitchen and the living room for me to pose in front of so she can take practice photos of me for tomorrow.
“Let me see the dress,” she says as she adjusts the settings of her camera.
Emily pulls the dress out of the garment bag and lays it out on the couch.
“That’s it?” she asks, unimpressed. “It’s a little conservative, don’t you think?”
“Yes, well we’re going for conservative and understated tomorrow night to combat some spicy headlines.”
“Ah, okay. Go try it on,” she orders me, “and we’ll see what we’re working with.”
When I come back out in the dress, Rhonda gives me an approving nod of her head. “It’s better than I thought it would be.”
The dress is a rich shade of plum and fits me like a glove. The high neckline and long sleeves give the dress a more traditional look, but it’s backless, which gives it some covert sex appeal. The team thought it was the perfect balance. We’ll see if they’re right after the gala.