When her gaze lands on me, it’s clear that I’m staff, nothing more. I am totally fine with that.
“Good morning, Miss Chesterfield,” I say, professional and warm, because that’s my job.
The corners of her mouth turn into a smile that could grace a billboard and still not convince you.
“Sweetheart,” she says, voice like honey, “I need something devastating.”
“We have a few candidates,” I say, gesturing to the new winter collection. “Are you looking for a particular silhouette? Column, corseted, bias?—”
“Something that will make everyone else disappear when I walk in,” she replies, eyes fixed on the mirror, admiring herself. “Nothing fussy. Damien hates fussy.”
The name lands sharp. My body wants to react, but I force it down.
“Damien?”
She raises her eyebrows, looking at me like I just climbed out of a closet.
“Damien Kozlov, of course. Surely evenyouhave heard of him.”
I clear my throat and adjust my sleeve to make sure the ribbon is still hidden, pretending like she’s not talking about the man who essentially owns me for the next month.
“Oh, of course. You’re accompanying him to an event?”
She turns, hair swinging like a banner, lips curling just so. “His Christmas party,” she replies, letting it drop like a diamond on the floor. “You know, the one everyone talks about? Everyone who’s anyone gets in. Everyone who isn’t wishes they could.”
“I’ve heard of it. It’s supposed to be beautiful,” I say. The party has another reputation, but I don’t get into that.
She glides over to a rack and drags her hand along it, not looking at the clothes so much as enjoying the motion. “He’s very particular,” she adds. “He likes precision. Clean lines.” She stops on a red silk number with a slit that could be prosecuted in several states. “This. Size 2.”
“Of course.” I slide the hanger free. “We can start a room for you.”
“In front,” she says, as if privacy is for people who can’t command spaces. “I don’t have time to play hide-and-seek in back.”
“Right this way.” I lead her to the large mirror bank and drape the dress over a velvet stool. “Would you like a few options to compare?”
“Bring three,” she says. “Red, black, and something that says I’m the only woman in the room.”
“Chartreuse,” I say before I can stop myself, and she laughs, a bright, brittle sound.
“You’re funny.” Her eyes skim my face. “What’s your name again?”
“Cassandra.”
“Mm.” She turns back to the mirror, lifting her hair and letting it fall. “Help me with the zipper, Cassandra.”
It’s a command, not a request. I keep my expression professional, hand her the dress, and gesture to the screen so she can change.
“You know him?” Her voice floats over the screen.
“Who?” I ask, too neutral.
“Darling, don’t be obtuse.” Her bangle bracelets jingle like tiny bells warning of an oncoming train. “Damien.”
“I’ve met him but only briefly.”
“Briefly can be enough,” she says and steps out, red silk pouring over her body. She looks like a headline and knows it. “Zip.”
I oblige. We share the mirror for a heartbeat. She’s a polished blade; I’m a silhouette in black with a measuring tape around my neck.
