Reborn Before Doomsday: My System Has Infinite Storage

Chapter 8

The black sedan pulled up to the curb in front of a building bearing a glowing sign: Eva Styles and Beauty.

"Are you completely sure about this? Alistair is going to be furious if he finds out you went in alone," Dylan warned, unable to shake the feeling that he was walking into a trap.

"I'm not forcing you. You can either drive away now, or I release the chats," I replied, placing the choice squarely back in his hands. "Besides, this gives you time to visit your mistress."

Dylan grit his teeth. He mentally cursed himself for leaving that damn phone in the console. He had never expected me to pry; the Serelle he used to know was a timid, quiet girl who avoided confrontation at all costs.

"You never said this was part of the deal," he complained.

"I never said thirty-five million was all I was asking for." As long as that phone remained in my possession, he would jump through whatever hoops I set up. "And if you breathe a word to Alistair about me attending alone before the event ends, I go straight to the media."

Dylan’s jaw tightened, but he knew arguing was pointless. He sat helplessly as I stepped out of the vehicle and walked into the establishment before he sped off.

The store's glass façade sparkled under bright exterior lighting, the business name emblazoned in gold lettering across the main window. I had located this spot online, picking it specifically for its high customer ratings. It operated as a high-end multi-purpose complex featuring a boutique, hair salon, and private cosmetic suites.

I needed to transform my appearance before entering the auction. First, I refused to spend the evening wearing Stephanie's style. Second, I needed an alias and a completely different look in case I identified a valuable target tonight.

"Good evening, ma’am! Welcome to Eva Styles and Beauty," the receptionist greeted me warmly from behind a sleek desk.

I surveyed the interior. The salon was modern and polished, soft ambient music echoing gently through the space.

"I need a makeup artist," I stated. "I'll also be selecting an outfit."

The receptionist began typing on her terminal. "And can I book a private room?" I added.

"Certainly, though private rooms incur an additional styling fee," she replied smoothly.

I was more than willing to pay extra to guarantee complete privacy for this transformation.

"I’m willing to pay."

I suddenly felt a surge of appreciation for Dylan's infidelity. If he weren't such a scumbag, where else would I have secured the funds for this? Now that I was thirty-five million dollars richer, my immediate financial stress had vanished.

This meant I definitely wouldn't be returning to my miserable apartment tonight. I could pay off my back rent to my landlady and treat myself properly.

After selecting a fitted black floor-length gown featuring a dramatic slit up the side, I was escorted into a private styling suite where a brunette artist was waiting.

She introduced herself as Elara Quinn.

After changing into the gown, I sat down in front of the vanity mirror. "What style are we aiming for tonight?" Elara asked politely.

I studied my reflection. "Something that renders me completely unrecognizable." I pulled out a sleek blonde bob wig I had purchased on the way in and set it on the table. "I need to look like a polished, high-powered professional. Give me sharp, striking features," I instructed, locking eyes with her through the glass.

Elara stared at me in silence, seemingly waiting for me to laugh and say I was joking. But when I maintained a deadpan expression, she realized I was entirely serious.

Elara was a skilled professional specializing in advanced facial contouring—the kind capable of altering bone structure appearance entirely.

"Alright," Elara agreed, giving a slow nod.

She tried making light conversation while her hands worked deftly across my face, but quickly quieted down when she realized I wasn't inclined to chat.

When she finished, I stared at the mirror, genuinely astonished by the result. The woman looking back at me possessed sharp cheekbones, bold red lips, and sleek blonde hair framed perfectly around her face. She looked nothing like the Serelle who had walked in forty minutes ago.

"Thank you. I love it," I said.

Elara smiled, clearly pleased with her handiwork. "You’re very welcome." She reached into her jeans pocket and handed me a business card. "This is my personal card. I don't work at this salon full-time, so give me a call directly whenever you want to recreate this look."

I nodded and tucked the card securely into my purse.

By the time I was ready to leave, it was past 8:00 PM. The auction was set to begin at 9:00 PM. As I took one final look at my reflection, my stomach growled painfully. I hadn't eaten a single thing all day.

Actually, scratch that—I hadn't had a proper, nutritious meal in years. But I could endure the hunger a little longer. Securing the jade necklace was my absolute priority, and I had already overcome the first major hurdles.

I booked a luxury ride to the venue. A red Audi arrived to pick me up at precisely 8:15 PM.

The drive from the salon to the auction house took twenty minutes. My palms began to sweat as we pulled up near the grand entrance. I wiped them against my gown and took several slow, calming breaths.

I was about to step into a room filled with billionaires, and I needed to blend in effortlessly without raising an ounce of suspicion.

"We have arrived, ma'am," the driver announced.

I looked out the window at the crowd, flinching slightly when a valet in a sharp black suit opened my door.

I swung my red-bottomed heels out first, stepping firmly onto the pavement before standing tall. A lump formed in my throat.

Guests strolled past clad in bespoke suits and glittering gowns, their jewelry flashing beneath the entrance lights. They spoke in low, relaxed tones, carrying themselves with the casual confidence of people who owned the world.

A attendant in a charcoal suit stood at the main doors holding a tablet displaying the evening's master guest list.

I observed how incoming guests presented their invitations before being granted entry.

I walked up to him, holding my chin high.

"Invitation, please," the attendant requested politely.

I presented the gold-trimmed card, keeping my hand steady despite my racing pulse.

"Name?" he asked, taking the card.

"Kierra Adams," I provided the alias I had fabricated during the drive over. I held my breath as his fingers scrolled down the screen.

His eyebrows knit together, his expression hardening slightly.

When he raised his head, my heart rate spiked. I tilted my head slightly, offering a cool, composed smile.

"I'm sorry," the attendant said smoothly, "but your name does not appear on tonight's guest list. I cannot permit entry."