Page 29 of All That Glitters

The premiere will help, I think distantly, get me back where I need to be, headspace wise, to get through this role, to get through the next four years with Marcus.

He pats me on the knee once, roughly, before hauling to his feet. “I’ll let you know.”

“Isn't this something one of my PAs should put on my calendar?” I taunt loudly.

“I swear to God, if you actually stick to a calendar, Empire, then I’ll get down on my knees and start praying. At this point, you’re like a child who needs her hand held every step of the way.” His voice diminishes the further away he gets, and I’m left sitting there, speechless.

Well, damn.

“Tell me how you really feel,” I whisper.

Two days later, he’s got a handful of stylists unloading their wares in my room. I stare open mouth at the army of people he’s hired to work their magic on me, only to have Marcus loom in the doorway, his favorite thing to do, and point to his watch.

“We’ve got five hours,” he barks out. “Get her ready. She’s got to shine.”

I’d rather stay home with the covers pulled over my head in bed than go to an opening, but I want to do it for him. Is it fucked up? I only accepted the movie part to please him, too, although there’s no way in hell I’m telling him.

Five hours later, and we’ve used every minute of the time to get plucked, primped, shined, and shaved. Not in that order.

Now, the girl in the mirror is a shadow of the one I used to see there but closer than I’ve been for a long time. My hair is already done, professionally curled around my face. The makeup artist Marcus hired just finished beating my face to heaven, and there’s more color and life in my eyes than I’m used to.

“You are just so beautiful, I want to die.” The makeup artist comes up behind me and rubs my shoulders through the robe. She goes wide eyed when I blanch. “Oh, gosh, I’m sorry! I just meant—”

I smile in assurance before saying, “Everything looks great, thank you. I do look beautiful.”

She went bold this time, a neutral palette for my eyes, since I have no idea what kind of dress Marcus is getting for me, but my lips are a hot red. A pair of ruby earrings shine at my lobes, and a diamond solitaire hangs on a white gold chain inches above my decolletage. Even the boobs got special treatment, scrubbed with a special honey and oat body butter before the stylist applied a lotion with a gentle shimmer.

Everything is in place physically, but my mind is miles away where it has no business going.

Back to the couch, with Marcus, where it’s just the two of us and his lips on mine.

A knock sounds at the door before Marcus peaks his head in. and my stomach flips, heat settling low. I squeeze my legs together.

“Well?” The makeup artist steps back to give him a better view. “How did I do?”

He ignores her. “Get dressed. You’ve got 15 minutes, and then we’re out the door.” He thrusts his arm into the room with a black garment bag dangling from his fingers. “For you.”

I can’t move. Instead, the makeup girl takes the bag from him and gently closes the door. “Alright. Let’s see what we’re working with, here.”

I hardly breathe as she lays the bag over the side of the bed and unzips it. White. The gown is pure white and glitters with pearls along the neckline and bust.

“Well. Looks like an original Oscar de la Renta. Absolutely stunning, and with your skin tone, it will look gorgeous. Do you want me to help you with it?”

I hear her voice from a distance and shake my head. “No. I’ve got it from here, thank you. You can all go. I’m fine.” I barely tear my eyes away from the dress to watch her and the others on the style team go, blinking only when the quiet snick of the door closing is the only sound in the room.

I’m finally able to draw breath again.

The dress is phenomenal. Gorgeous, designer, and more than likely the price of a small car. The fabric is sumptuous and a little heavy. I lift it out of the garment bag with trembling fingers. The front is one giant piece—correction, the bust is one piece, but the middle of the dress is made up of overlapping straps, weaving over and around each other.

Marcus brought me a dress. It rivals even the most exquisite of my mother’s premiere gowns, with a modern twist to the old-fashioned skirt.

Two years ago, I joined Mom as her date on opening night of her romantic spy thriller, In Love with Death. She gave me free leave to choose whatever I wanted to wear, as long as it matched the dress her designer chose for the evening.

I ended up with a skirt short enough to show most of my legs, and there were more than a few articles online about it. Neither best dressed nor worst, and Mom had laughed, telling me any day where my name dominated the social media searches was a good day.

The echoing stirs of her laughter fade from my mind the longer I stare at the gown.

True to his word, Marcus arranged for the hair and makeup artists. He really had taken care of everything, and even though I know what to expect, I feel nothing like how I used to feel when I went to these things. The joy is gone. The anticipation lingers, but it’s colored by something else, something like apprehension.

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