Page 68 of Silken Chains
“Chin up.”
“Eyes still.”
“Hold steady.”
Why do I need to be dolled up like I’m attending the Grammy Awards ceremony?
Finally, after what feels like an eternity in the chair, she stops.
“You’re done,” Irina declares abruptly, snapping her makeup case shut. I take a deep breath and open my eyes, meeting the gaze of someone I hardly recognize in the mirror.
“Wow,” I can’t help but let the word escape, my shock evident.
Who the hell is this person staring back at me?
“I look like someone else,” I gasp out, still stunned. Irina’s attempt to stay stern falters for a moment, and a shadow of a smile sneaks onto her face. She quickly smothers it, though, turning to signal the maids.
“Bring the dresses,” she barks, shifting back to business.
Two maids approach, each bearing a dress so stunning it momentarily steals my breath. One is a sleek black number, its fabric shimmering subtly in the light, embodying elegance and mystery. The other is a nude, ethereal gown, its chiffon fabric flowing and delicate, like something out of an old, elegant painting.
“For me?” I can’t help but ask.
“Of course, it is. Stand up now. We need to get you ready,” she says, her tone cold and stern.
“I can dress myself,” I insist, pulling away from her and locking eyes. “Please, just give me some space.”
Resignation mixes with annoyance as Irina exhales sharply and mutters something in Russian to the maids, who reluctantly step back and hand me the dresses.
The fabric glides through my fingers like a silken dream. I look at the black dress; my breath catches in my throat as I glimpse the label—Chanel.
“Chanel,” I repeat in disbelief, unable to believe that I am actually holding a piece of luxury fashion in my hands.
My eyes land on the other dress, the McQueen one. It’s classy, and it looks fucking expensive—practically screams that I’m out of my depth. “Am I really wearing these?” I whisper to myself, the idea of it all feeling like some elaborate prank.
Damn.
I picture myself stumbling, a wave of chocolate ruining thousands of dollars of fabric. The thought makes me suck in a breath.
Irina’s impatience is palpable, her tapping heel a metronome counting down my hesitation. “Well? Are you going to try them on or not?” Her finger jabs in the direction of the dressing room.
Okay, princess transformation it is.
But my so-called fairy godmother is clearly on a schedule.
I take a step toward the dressing room. A smirk dances on my lips at the thought of fleeing at midnight, my fancy attire left behind.
Just then, a small, energetic figure appears at the top of the staircase.
“Boo!” She’s all giggles, twirling in her mini gown. Eli comes charging into the room like a little tornado, full of energy.
“Okay, I’m not scared of you anymore.” I keep my voice light, though I half-expect Ksenia to follow her lead, but the staircase remains empty.
“Laura, you’re not dressed yet?” Eli’s question is more of an impatient nudge. “I’m here to bring you to dinner.”
Her mother’s absence is a small relief. “I don’t know which dress to wear,” I admit, sticking out my tongue at her.
“Laura! You’re an adult!” she tries to scold me, her little face serious. “You should know everything.”
