Olivia
The suite Caterina set aside for getting ready and dressed isn’t technically mine, but for the last hour it may as well have been.
Garment racks line one wall with black blazers in twin sizes, emergency skirts, backup blouses in two cuts, a couple of tuxedo jackets for the women who like sharp lines and functional pockets.
A rolling cart holds clear bins labeled in neat handwriting: pins, fashion tape, lint rollers, stain sticks, breath mints, blister patches, small sewing kits, nail files, clear polish. Another cart is nothing but chargers and power bricks snaking out from a surge strip that hums.
I’ve got the suite’s desk turned into my staging area: run-of-show printed and flagged, one master copy and two spares; the draft of the seating chart for the small-donor supper in the mezzanine; the vendor acknowledgment list I promised myself I wouldn’t forget when the speeches start; a copy of the emergency plan in case anything goes sideways.
There’s a small pile of granola bars for anyone to grab because there will barely be a moment to eat tonight.
I can’t even think about eating right now.
The bathroom counter is chaos. Brushes, a few hairpins, my compact, setting spray. A small tray holds jewelry options Caterina insisted on sending up from the boutique downstairs—simple studs, a set of hoops, drop earrings, a thin diamond line that will sparkle if the light hits it.
Sparkle isn’t really what I’m going for tonight, though. I pick the simple drop earrings and set the others aside in their little velvet trays, thankful for the loan and also a little overwhelmed by the gesture.
Caterina calls it “guest energy,” this thing where we insist our staff look like we value them because we do. She lives it. Tonight, I get to wear it.
I’m in black. A sleek, simple sheath with a neckline that means business and a hem that lets me move without thinking about it. The fabric has enough structure to skim without clinging. No belts, nothing to snag a radio cord or catch on a door handle. The jacket is cut close, sleeves just long enough to cover the discreet band that will hold my earpiece wire in place.
I won’t be able to carry a bag around, so I have to settle for the bare minimum that will fit in my pockets but not make a big impression. I settle on lipstick, a pen, breath mints, and a slim power bank for my phone or radio or whatever.
The shoes are a concession to optics, not comfort or utility: three and a half inch stiletto heels, elegant enough for press photos, secure enough to trot up a flight of stairs if I have to. I already pity my feet. They’ll be dead by the end of the night.
I twist in front of the full-length mirror to check the line of the jacket, the way the skirt moves. I brush my hands over the healing mark on my side, hidden beneath the fabric. It’s nearly faded now, and shockingly, I find myself wishing it would linger a bit longer. What does that say about me?
Unfortunately, I haven’t had a minute to figure it out over the past week. And I don’t have one now either.
I go back to studying the dress itself. Maybe it’s a bit much, but the dress passes every test I can throw at it. Sit, stand, pivot, lean. Wave an arm to point at an imaginary staging area. Bend to pick up an imaginary napkin. I do the one thing people forget: I reach down like I’m plugging a cable into a floor box and make sure nothing lifts where it shouldn’t.
The dress stays in place and keeps my dignity intact. Good.
Hair next. Half-up, half-down the way I planned: top section smoothed and pinned with two tiny grips, the rest in loose waves that won’t snag on my jacket collar. It looks more styled than it is. Practical masquerading as pretty.
My face gets the same treatment. The smoky liner makes my blue eyes go electric. A soft matte on the mouth that will hopefully stay all night. Powder where it needs to be, nothing heavy.
I set the compact down and let my hands go still. The silence in here is the best kind, still and isolated. The rest of the building is moving like an organism: freight elevators rehearsing their routes, AV doing last checks, Security testing badge scanners, front-of-house walking the guest path so there are no surprises when feet hit carpet.
I’ve been a node in that system all day, bouncing from one check-in to the next. Step-and-repeat banners hung straight and lit clean. Photo pens arranged so the crowd doesn’t bottleneck. Rope lines measured, turn radiuses wide enough so wheelchairs flow without fuss. Hospitality tables stocked for the right mix of locals and officials. Gift bags staged in the correct order, sponsor names confirmed for the tenth time because the only thing worse than being left off is being misspelled.
Press already tried to snake in earlier. A pair of bright-eyed reporters did the “we’re with the paper” routine and thought Security would let them right in. They didn’t.
It was a good chance to test our system organically.
We politely explained that there would be no press admitted on the first night of the grand opening. This was the night for our guests to relax and enjoy their evening without worry about having their pictures taken.
They weren’t happy about it, but it worked.
It was all working exactly how I’d imagined it would. Reporters and paparazzi are lined up outside. Reporters are salivating to get the first scoop. Caterina is thrilled.
Sure, we’ve only got three hundred invitations out for this first night, but it’s already looking to be a huge success.
I give myself ten seconds, eyes closed. Not a prayer exactly. Not a wish. A focus.
When I’m ready, I pick up the earpiece and slide it on, mindful of my earrings. I fiddle with it until it sits comfortably and nearly invisible. I step back and roll my shoulders until everything settles where it’s supposed to.
I stand still and take stock. The woman in the glass is composed. The woman in the glass built something with a team that trusts her. The woman in the glass can throw her shoulders back and walk into a lobby full of people who came to be impressed and give them exactly what they came for without losing herself in the process.
