Page 69 of Filthy Rich

“Can I help you?” The woman walking toward me is exquisite. She’s the kind of person who should be wearing this. She’s tall, thin, and just perfection all around. There’s not a blemish, not a wrinkle, and not a single discoloration marring the beauty of her face.

I feel really stupid even asking about trying it on. “I’m looking for something to wear on the cover of an album we’re about to release.” Why did I say that? “This is probably out of our budget.” I swallow. “But my partner really thought it might be the perfect thing.”

“Are you wanting to borrow it?” The woman frowns. “Because we don’t really do that.”

I shake my head. “No, of course you don’t.”

Bea blows through the door like a tiny hurricane. “She’s going to try this on.” She folds her arms.

The woman blinks. “We don’t really do?—”

“You don’t allow people who are looking for clothing to come shop in your store? Or you don’t let people who are going to be spending. . .” She glances down, and her eyes widen infinitesimally, but she doesn’t react beyond that. “. . .seventeen thousand dollars on one of your works of wearable art try them on?” Her eyebrows shoot up. “I find that hard to believe.”

The woman frowns, and even then, she looks like a print model. “Your partner here says it’s out of your budget.”

“Did she?” Bea laughs. “Good thing she’s not in charge of the money part.” She waves. “I imagine it’s a one-of-a-kind, for that price?”

The woman’s frown deepens, impossibly. “It is.”

“Perfect.” Bea’s beaming, the counterpoint to Grumpy Bear. “My friend is, too, as you can see. They don’t make beauty like hers more than once.”

I expect Grumpy Bear to laugh, but she glances my way again and her eyes widen. “You’re Jake Priest’s girlfriend.”

I swallow.

“Here, let me get it off the dress form.” She keeps her eyes down the whole time, never meeting my eye. I can’t tell whether she’s embarrassed or just finds my face hard to look at. I suppose it doesn’t really matter.

It takes her longer than I expect to get the whole thing off the mannequin, but once she does, it takes all three of us to bundle it back and into the dressing room. I actually feel a little bad, making her go through all that, even though she was a little snotty. Bea must know we can’t afford this now that she’s seen the price tag.

“We should not be doing this,” I hiss, once I’m in one of their two massive dressing rooms with Bea helping me into the rainbow cupcake.

“Hush, you.” Bea slaps my arm. “Bra off, loser. There’s no way you’ll like this with straps showing all over the place.”

I turn around just to glare at her. “There’s no way we’re getting this, so why does it matter?”

“Just do it.” Bea’s glaring so fiercely that I almost laugh.

It’s not often someone like me gets to dress up like they’re the Princess of Monaco. This might be my one time, ever. And if I stand with my right side toward the mirror, I might not even hate it. I might even have Bea snap a photo after all.

I tug my bra off, and then Bea helps me zip the back up. I’m surprised to find that they have supportive bra cups built into the sleeveless sheath form, so I don’t even look like I’m sagging to my knees. Though, for seventeen thousand dollars, it should play the piano, clean my room, and lift and shape my bosom.

Now that I’m looking at it up close, I realize how very delicate the carefully shaped and embroidered chiffon actually is. When I gather up my skirt, the tiny bits flutter and shift, and even looking down on it from above as I am, it almost looks worth the steep price tag.

For one tiny moment, I find myself wishing I could buy it.

I’m far too practical, of course. I would never. But I can see why Bea wanted me to try it on. “You know we can’t buy it,” I whisper. “But I don’t regret putting it on, other than feeling a little guilty.”

Bea arches one eyebrow. “You have to leave the dressing room to get the full effect.”

I turn around and realize for the first time that there aren’t mirrors in here. “Why don’t they have mirrors in a dressing room?”

Bea grabs the handle on the door. “They have a wall length floor-to-ceiling mirror outside. Didn’t you see it?” She tilts her head. “These aren’t the kind of clothes you can appreciate without something like that.”

When we walk out, I realize I didn’t even glance to the left as we walked back. I was too busy shifting the dress inside the room without letting it snag on anything. I couldn’t imagine the horror of tearing a seventeen thousand dollar ball gown. I would die.

“How would I even move in this?” I ask.

“There are spots in four places where we can gather the skirt underneath when you need to move in it, but they would be custom tailored based on the purchaser’s height.” The woman’s voice startles me. I had no idea she was waiting outside for us, like a spider. Is that normal?

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