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“I mean, I’ve heard you’re into the ladies these days, so it’s only fair to ask…”
I instantly blush a combination of red and pale that makes me feel like a stop sign. “Shut up,” I mumble.
“Too soon?” asks Jillian. “Yeah, too soon. My bad.” She brightens back up again and does a little shimmy of glee. “Lots to be excited about today, though! Ready to see what Sugar Daddy picked out for you?”
That does nothing to quell my flushed face. “Please do not call him that.”
“Would you prefer Zaddy? Silver Fox? The Geezer Who Pays Your Bills?”
“I’d prefer silence, actually.”
She links her arm through mine. “Tough titty. I’m a yapper. Let’s go.”
Maison Élise is in the Meatpacking District. The building doesn’t have a sign, just a small brass plaque next to an anonymous black door. If you didn’t know it was there, you’d walk right past.
Jillian whistles low. “Shmancy.”
I wrinkle my nose. “I hate it already.”
She opens the door and I pause on the threshold. Places like this have a smell. It’s not just the boujee oil diffusers hidden in the ceiling, though—it’s the smell ofmoney. Old money, new money, lots of money,anymoney. I learned to recognize that smell after Mom and Dad died.
They didn’t have life insurance, nor did they have any living family on either side. The modest savings account they left behind dried up faster than fast. Funerals aren’t cheap, and neither are braces for morose fifteen-year-olds. College,needless to say, was an expense we could not afford. Within three months, I’d dropped out to start working two jobs and picking up spare shifts at a third whenever I could make it happen. The rest of my free time was spent lying to my little brother about why we couldn’t afford new sneakers when his old ones got holes in the toes.
Places like Maison Élise didn’t let girls like me through the door back then. I’d walk past boutiques in Manhattan with Gideon, side-eyeing the opulent window displays and feeling judged by them.
Look, but don’t touch,they seemed to say.Dream, but don’t hope.
Now, I’m supposed to waltz in here like Mary freaking Poppins with a black AmEx and pretend I belong? All because Lukas Lazarev said so?
The thing is, Idon’tbelong. Ineverwill. No number of fancy dresses or champagne fountains can change where I came from. Pricey lingerie can’t fix what I lost. Expensive heels can’t undo who I became to survive.
Jillian touches my wrist. “You okay, Sunshine?”
“Thriving,” I lie. “Let’s get this over with.”
We step inside. After a short, candle-lit foyer, we step through another door into the main area of the shop. The space is small but dazzling. White walls, white floors, white furniture, white everything, as if color is a concept for the poors to concern themselves with.
Apparently, so is the concept of “products for sale.” A single rack of clothing stands in the corner. It holds maybe ten pieces total.My rule of thumb holds true: The price of any item within a store is inversely proportional to how many items there are. If there’s one lone t-shirt on a rack, you know damn well that thing is woven from the mane of a unicorn and infused with the tears of several minor deities.
As we blink to adjust to the light, a woman glides toward us. She’s at least six feet tall, skinny enough to make me regret my breakfast, and effortlessly elegant, with hair dyed platinum-white in the way that only the coolest of cool girls can pull off. Her sheer-paneled black dress has so many buckles and zippers. Like it can hide all her juicy secrets.
“Ms. Everett?” she asks.
“That’s me,” I confirm.
“I’m Säsha. We’ve been expecting you.” Her eyes flick to Jillian. “And your… guest.”
“She’s my emotional support human,” I offer. “I don’t go anywhere without her.”
Jillian rests her head on my shoulder and waves. “Hi! I’m here to judge things and drink whatever free booze you have lying around.”
To her credit, Säsha takes that in stride. She bows and smiles. “Of course. It’s a pleasure. Right this way, ladies.”
She leads us through a curtain into a private room. Inside, I find—shocker—more white walls, a white velvet settee, and a white-framed tri-fold mirror that catches every angle I’ve ever had and then some.
Is that really what the back of my head looks like?
“Please, make yourselves comfortable,” Säsha says. “I’ll bring the dress.”
