One of the women stepped forward with the kind of elegance that required years of experience working with clients who had all enjoyed far more successful lives than my own. Her smile was friendly but professional—warm enough to put me at ease, but just enough distance to remind me it was all part of her job.
"Miss Miller, please," she said, gesturing toward the vanity chair in front of a tall mirror that is lit softly with side lights. "Have a seat."
The chair looked like it came straight from a fashion show—sleek, comfy, placed in front of a mirror surrounded by bright bulbs that made everything glow. Every brush on the vanity was lined up perfectly, each palette open like an invitation, and every tool sparkled under the lights. The air smelled faintly of makeup and high-end perfume, just like a backstage dressing room before a show starts.
I felt like I was moving through water, my arms and thoughts heavy and slow, trying to catch up with how unreal all of this is. I sat down, hands on knees, eyes darting back and forth between my face in the mirror and the impossibly beautiful mess around me.
The second woman went to the garment bag and unzipped it gently, almost like she was revealing a piece of art rather than just an outfit. I held my breath, and when I saw what was inside, I swear my heart skipped a beat.
It was… breathtaking.
The top was a rich, deep chocolate-brown, gathered at the sides in a way that it almost looked sculpted, like it had been shaped directly on a body instead of sewn together. The fabric shimmered with restraint like a secret meant for just a few. It was sensual but not too loud, classy yet bold. The kind of piece that didn't have to shout for attention—it assumed it.
Then came the pants. A soft taupe that balanced the richness of the top, high-waisted with wide legs that whispered power with every drape of fabric. They didn't scream designer, but they didn't need to. They were the kind of pants worn in rooms where decisions were made─where power didn't need to wear a crown because it already sat on the shoulders.
And then the shoes.
Deep brown stilettos, perfectly polished, the kind that didn't walk—they made a statement with their red soles practically winking at me. They looked like the kind of heels that made you taller and quieter at the same time — like you could step into the spotlight and vanish after saying something unforgettable. She placed them down gently, like setting down something precious.
Thick gold hoop earrings that shone without being flashy. Two slender bangles—Cartier, obvious to anyone who knew. They didn't sparkle; they exuded a quiet elegance, a confidence that spoke of wealth.
Finally, the bag.
A Jacquemus. Compact and structured. Deep brown leather so smooth it looked like it could bleed. It was the kind of bag that didn't need anyone to announce its brand—if you knew, you knew. Small enough to hold nothing but secrets and maybe a lipstick. The kind of bag that didn't scream wealth — it whispered it.
I stared at it all.
At the outfit. At the shoes. The jewelry. The bag. The quiet army of beauty lined up just for me.
It didn't shimmer under the vanity lights. It glowed.
This wasn't just an outfit.
It was a statement.
He planned this. Right down to the shade of the lipstick.
I stared at all of it, wide-eyed. "I'm really wearing that?"
The makeup artist gave a small laugh. "You'll look amazing in it. Now, let's get you dressed."
I put on the outfit laid out for me. the fabric smooth against my skin, the fit dangerously perfect. The wide-legged pant hugged my waist and flowed like liquid gold around my legs, while the off-shoulder top hugged my torso, rich and dark like melted chocolate. Every piece screamed intention. Power. Presence.
Once I was in the outfit, they didn't just lead me to the mirror—they placed me there. One hand on my shoulder and one gently adjusting the angle of the chair, almost like I was part of a carefully arranged display. It felt like I was the finishing touch they'd been working on since I arrived.
"Stay still," one of the women said softly, her voice soft but firm—an artist preparing her canvas.
I stayed quiet and still as their hands worked with focus. Brushes swept across my skin in whispering strokes—foundation that evened and smoothed, contour that carved shadows where none had existed before They gave me a soft smoky eye, just enough to add some drama without going overboard. Then, a warm rose gloss on my lips that caught the light when I turned my head—inviting and just enough to grab attention.
There was no small talk among them, just the sound of their movements, the clicking of makeup cases, and brushes scraping against palettes. They smoothed my hair back and tucked it behind my ears with care, making sure every detail was in place. It framed my face neatly, drawing attention to my earrings and the person wearing them.
Then came the perfume.
A delicate glass bottle was lifted like it was special. A quick spritz on my wrists, then another behind my ears. The scent was lovely and rich—floral, but also warm, like sunlight and quiet whispers. It was close but not overpowering, like a secret I carried with me.
"There," someone said, so quietly it felt more like a blessing than a compliment. "Perfect."
I opened my eyes and froze.
The reflection staring back at me… she wasn't a stranger. But she wasn't entirely me, either. She was something more refined, more dangerous. she was more polished, more compelling. Her eyes were steady, framed by soft shadows. There was a hint of something in her smile—maybe certainty or some distance. Her skin glowed under the lights, and her earrings sparkled like little suns..
She looked like the kind of woman who didn't ask for space—she took it. The kind of woman who walked into a room and changed its temperature. I stared, searching for any familiar flaws. But this time, they were hidden behind makeup and confidence.
"I look…" I whispered, hardly hearing my own voice over the chaos in my chest, "…different."
As I was adjusting the strap of the handbag they'd left next to me, still a bit amazed at how perfectly it fit against my side, my phone buzzed on the counter, breaking the quiet of the room.
I glanced down.
Mr Walton.
His name glowed on the screen, sharp and authoritative, like even his contact ID couldn't afford to be casual.
I picked up. "Hello—"
"Are you not done yet?"
No small talk. Just his voice—cool and a bit annoyed.
My back straightened instinctively. "I am," I replied, almost defensively.
"Good," he said. "Don't wait for anyone. Go straight inside."
I frowned. "Inside where?"
"The ballroom," he said, as if that was obvious. "The auction's about to start. Check your bag—there's a VIP ticket. Show it to security, and they'll know what to do."
And just like that, he hung up.
I slowly lowered my phone, the screen dimming in my hand, and the silence returned.
For a moment, I just stood there, staring at my reflection—this polished version of myself that seemed ready for anything but felt completely lost.
I opened the bag.
Tucked between a lip gloss and a tiny bottle of perfume was the card. It was thick and glossy, with gold trim and VIP printed in shiny letters that seemed to challenge me.
I let out a breath I hadn't realized I was holding.
I stood up, gripping the bag firmly but carefully, my heels clicking gently against the marble floor as I headed toward the door.
One last glance in the mirror.
My reflection didn't flinch.
Time to make an entrance.