Chapter 10

The executive meeting room on the twenty-fifth floor is perhaps the most luxurious room I’ve seen in the Goldstone Building.

In a place that’s designed around efficiency at every turn. This room’s dripping in luxury, from the carpeting so thick it looks like it could cushion a tap-dancing elephant to leather chairs that creak only to mellowly remind you of how buttery rich their upholstery is. And the piece de resistance is the crisp display paneling the far wall, so large it’s almost over the top.

All in all, the room’s amazing.

You could throw the Super Bowl party of all Super Bowl parties here.

But right now, corporate meetings are the last thing this room’s set up for. Instead, there’s a trio of mirrors, a huge rack of gowns, and a bunch of other stuff that I honestly don’t quite grasp the use of.

But the biggest thing in the room is truly... huge. As in, a bald man who looks like he’s nearly seven feet tall, with a barrel-shaped upper body that’s clad in... lilac velvet?

“Hi, uhm I’m—” I start before the giant of a man turns, a huge smile spreading across his face.

“My next canvas to show the world how fabulous life can be,” he says melodramatically, his voice sounding nothing like I would expect, given what he’s wearing. It’s as deep as James Earl Jones’s voice. “Come in, come in. I’m Damien Rayie, the artist who will transform you into the princess you should be.”

It’s a hell of an introduction, and I feel weird as I step inside, closing the door behind me. “Hi, I’m Mia Karakova.”

“Lovely to meet you, Mia. Come now, let’s start with that hair. What did you do with it?”

“Uh . . . black and green streaks?”

Damien shakes his head. “Not that, I mean the style, the style! Oh, we have our hands full today!”

He sits me down as an assistant pops out from behind the rack of dresses, and for the next hour, my head’s the center of attention while Damien talks constantly.

“So this event, it’s a political fundraiser, which means I’ll have to restrain myself. It’s a shame, because I have rarely seen such a perfect set of raw materials for me to work with. Such is life, but maybe we can have another opportunity.” He winks conspiratorially.

“Wait,” I ask, sipping at the tea that another assistant gave me. “What do you mean, perfect raw materials?”

“What do I mean?” Damien asks, looking like I’ve taken leave of my senses. “What do I mean? Do you really not know, or are you mocking Damien and his vision?” He eyes me sharply, and I get the sense that he’s seeing into my soul.

“I’m not mock—ow!” I answer as the person on my hair tugs a knot free. “Come on, I condition my hair three times a week. It can’t be that bad!”

“Hush now, darling. Stella knows what she is doing. I do think those streaks are very you, and yes, when I say raw material, I mean raw material.” He lifts my chin with one finger, looking deeply into my eyes. “I don’t think you realize how beautiful you are, but don’t worry. If you didn’t before, you will when we’re done.”

After the hair, Stella moves around to focus on my makeup.

“Why are we doing all this now? The fundraiser’s not until Friday.”

Damien hums. “Trial run. And to choose the proper dress, one must be conscious of the total vision. I can’t have you trying on gowns with a messy bun and a bare face.” He shivers like the mere thought is off-putting, which makes me laugh.

Stella huffs her annoyance, and I straighten, sitting up tall and still for her to work. I close my eyes, letting the brush strokes along my face soothe my nerves.

This is crazy, like some sort of fairy godmother shit, and though I don’t want to get my hopes up, there’s a piece of me that hopes Damien can do something with me to make it so that I feel right when I walk into the fundraiser on Thomas’s arm. Otherwise, I’m afraid I’m going to stick out like a sore thumb and be an embarrassment, not to Thomas but to myself.

Stella intones, “Open.” I open my eyes to see her scanning my face critically. “It’ll do.”

And that’s exactly what I wanted to hear, I think, holding back the eye roll but saying, “Great. Mother Russia is not amused.”

Damien doesn’t even get caught by my weird little jokes to myself. “Now, the lingerie! What are you wearing now?”

I’ve never felt so deconstructed but at the same time supportively rebuilt. Damien forgets nothing, scheduling a mani-pedi and full-body waxing for Thursday evening, then picking out a set of lingerie for me that feels...

“My God, where did you find this?” I ask as I look at myself in the mirror. It’s not slutty, but sexy and supportive at the same time. I feel like my breasts have been lifted by magic, and they look damn good, from what I can tell.

Damien’s being nice, letting me try everything on in a little ad-hoc changing room behind a curtain, but I almost want to show him how good this looks. “It’s amazing!”

“Damien has his suppliers, darling,” Damien replies behind the curtain, chuckling. “As I said, a true artist does not depend on labels but on the materials. This comes from a little boutique in Seattle. Now for the dress!”

We go through a dozen dresses, each one more fabulous than the previous. Damien doesn’t let me look at the results though, just him and his assistants as they study me. “No,” he says at the first. “With hair like hers, that tone just isn’t right.”

Next.

“Washes out her skin, and I don’t want to risk that silk with a bronzer.”

Next.

The fifth, he laughs at, shaking his head. “Only if we want someone to call you Elsa... no, try the yellow-gold one. It’s dramatic, but maybe that’s what we need.”

Finally, he hits on the dress, and Damien’s face blooms into a wide smile. “Yes! That’s the one!”

“Can I see?” I ask, and Damien nods. He points to his assistant, who uncovers the mirrors, and I turn.

The sight of me takes my breath away. The skirt is full and elegant, clinging to my waist before puffing out just a little in golden yellow waves that are a shade darker than my hair, while the top shines with encrusted crystals, framing my stomach and breasts in contours that highlight my figure.

I blink, and my fingers shake as I adjust my glasses, which somehow compliment the whole ensemble even though these are just my work glasses.

“I... I’m beautiful,” I murmur, but it’s more than that.

For the first time in my life, I see myself as not just brains, not just ‘meh’ looking, but beyond beautiful. I’m fucking gorgeous. With my hair piled on top of my head the way it is, my neck arches gracefully like a swan’s, and the ringlets that have been allowed to escape the updo frame my face and make me feel... “Damien, thank you!”

“It is nothing, darling,” Damien says, grunting as I turn and hug him tightly. “Mia, my dear, is this your first time understanding?”

Tears threaten to spill from my eyes, and I nod, looking up at him. “Papa calls me his princess, jokes I’m Anastasia, but... but...”

“But he is your Papa, and that makes it easy to dismiss,” Damien says, patting my shoulder gently with his massive hand. “Trust me, I understand. Now, we are not finished. A few accessories, not too many. As you said, you are beautiful as you are. Just enough to accentuate, not distract. First... a necklace to match your glasses. Or do you wear contacts?”

“Never,” I admit. “They irritate me.”

“Come, I have a dark crystal set that’ll go perfectly with that and the hair colors.”

I just get the necklace, obsidian and pearl with a smoky dark gray diamond in the middle, clasped around my neck when there’s a knock on the door, and Thomas comes in.

“I came to see—”

His voice stops as he sees me, and I gulp, doing my best little curtsy for him as I smile widely. “What do you think?”

Damien looks eager to hear praise as well, but Thomas’s eyes never leave mine as he studies me.

Silently, he crosses the room, taking in my hair, my skin, and my curves and looking at me with a fire burning in his eyes that both scares me and turns me on. Either he’s about to explode... or he’s about to explode.

“Everyone out,” he says, his eyes fixing on mine. “Now.”

Damien opens his mouth, snapping it shut after a moment and waving his assistants out. He tosses me a wink and a big grin before calling out, “Lovely to meet you, Miss Karakova.”

Thomas walks them to the door, closing it and throwing the lock while I stand next to the conference table, trying to figure out whether he’s angry or turned on.

“Thomas?” I ask, and he crosses the room, grabbing my waist and pulling me to him before crushing my lips in an intense kiss.

Question answered.