I held tight to the fantasy that never materialized for too many years. Now, it’s time to take Steve’s advice and treat this weekend ike a luxury vacation.
And my interactions with Rio like a job.
Antoine guides me toward a discreet storefront with no name. Just a frosted glass door. It slides open automatically as we approach.
A man in a beautifully tailored uniform stands waiting with a silver tray of champagne flutes.
“Welcome,” he says, offering one to me.
“Thanks. I don’t drink. Especially before noon.”
Antoine presses a glass into my hand anyway. “Then just hold it. It completes the aesthetic.”
Of course it does.
Inside, the shop looks more like a private museum than a store. Soft lighting. Velvet walls. The air smells like jasmine and exclusivity.
An impeccably put-together woman steps in. She wears a sleek black suit hugging her figure like a second skin.
“Veronica,” Antoine says, greeting her with a nod. “This is Madison Smith. We need a wardrobe ready by four. Well, at least a few items. The rest can be delivered at midnight for tomorrow.”
Her eyes sweep over me in one efficient pass, laser-focused. I feel like she’s counting my pores, assessing my bone structure, and calculating my credit score all in a single glance.
“A pleasure, Ms. Smith,” she says, her voice cool and professional. “Please, come to the atelier.”
She leads us into a jewel-box room with emerald wallpaper and antique paintings.
“Where are the clothes?” I whisper to Antoine. The racks are empty.
“This is a different kind of shop,” he says.
As if predicting just what he wants, Veronica reaches into a sleek black drawer and removes an iPad.
“Wardrobe creation time,” Antoine announces. “Step on the riser.”
“The what?”
He points to a round marble platform in the center of the room. “Up you go. So I can see the lines.”
Snorty yips encouragement, his little paws digging into the plush carpet as he settles onto his haunches to watch.
I step onto the cool marble, feeling slightly ridiculous. Like a prize heifer on display at the county fair.
Antoine positions his stylus over the iPad screen with the concentration of a surgeon.
“Try not to move. Art is happening.”
I do my best impression of a statue, with my arms hanging awkwardly at my sides.
Finally, Antoine stops sketching. “Veronica, bring in the structure pieces. We’ll need to choose the armor for the press conference tonight.”
“Yes, Mr. LaRue.”
Armor.I like that word. It feels accurate. I’m going into battle against the tabloids, Henry Lemon, and Rio’s reputation. I’ll need all the protection I can get.
A moment later, Veronica returns carrying an armful of jackets that look like they belong in a magazine, not on my body. Antoine waves his hand for me to step down.
“Try these,” he says, picking out three jackets with quick, confident taps on the hangers.
