Page 89 of Goalie's Obsession

I force a grin. “Say that again when I survive all the heels and glitter tomorrow night.”

“Godspeed,” she whispers. “And remember—if all else fails, fake a fainting spell and blame altitude sickness.”

“L.A. is sea level.”

Emma sips again. “Commit to the lie, babe.”

I barely hang up the call with Emma when the door to my suite bursts open like it’s the set of a reality show and the producers just screamedaction.

“Delivery!” Sophia calls, striding in with a garment bag flung over each arm and a bottle of champagne swinging from one hand.

Natalie follows close behind, juggling a tray of tiny boutique bags and a glittering box that might be filled with shoes… or jewels… or live doves, knowing her.

“Time’s up,” Natalie sing-songs. “We let you wallow for one hour longer than I wanted. Now it’s time to sparkle, bitch.”

“Good morning to you, too,” I say.

Sophia ignores me entirely, already uncorking the champagne with a dangerous pop and pouring into flutes she pulled from her tote like a magician. “We brought options,” she says, nodding to the garment bags. “A lot of them.”

Natalie hands me a glass and plucks my phone from my fingers. “No more scrolling. No more stressing. We’re doing gowns, glam, and goddess energy only.”

I blink. “I—wait. I haven’t even—”

“Bathroom,” Sophia orders, already hanging dresses along the curtain rod. “Chop chop, Cinderella.”

Part of me wants to dig in my heels. To say no. To remind them this isn’tmeanymore—to get me a dress straight off the rack like a normal fucking person.

But then Natalie lifts one of the dresses from the rack and shoves it in my chest.

“We tagged your name on our favorites. try this one first."

I sigh, sip the champagne she already handed me, and head for the bathroom.

Not because I’m convinced. But because they are.

And sometimes… when your best friend's tell you they're there for you, that’s just about enough.

When I eventually step out of the bathroom, the entire suite has officially transformed into a boutique war zone.

Champagne glasses line the window sill, dress bags hang from every doorknob, and Sophia’s heels are strewn across the floor like party favors no one collected.

I step out in gown number one and pause in front of the mirror.

Natalie claps from the bed. “Okay. I amobsessedalready. You look like a Bond girl about to destroy someone with her beauty and a poisoned martini.”

Sophia makes a small, reverent noise, clearly agreeing with every word.

I glance down at the high neck, the glittering sleeves, the dramatic belt cinched so tightly it practically announces,Yes, I inherited wealth and yes, I have an opinion about your posture.

I force a smile that's so fake it almost cracks beneath the pressure. “I look like my mother at a holiday gala.”

They both freeze.

“Excuse me,” Natalie says, blinking. “That is not an insult. That woman could wear a power suit like it was armor.”

I turn, studying the dress from a new angle. The reflection is sharp. Elegant. Impeccable.

It’s also…familiar.

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