Lisa arrived at Maddox Studios just before ten, wearing the only semi-formal outfit she owned: a wrinkled blouse and the old blazer she used for job interviews.
The woman standing outside gave her a once-over and immediately turned to her clipboard, like Lisa’s presence was some clerical mistake.
Which was fine by Lisa. What, did the woman expect Beyoncé at her doorstep? “Stupid rich people.” Lisa sneered within herself.
“This way,” the woman muttered, not making eye contact as she led Lisa through a hallway that smelled like upper-class snobbery.
Lisa stepped into a massive dressing suite and froze.
Maddox Studios looked every bit like the inside of a billionaire’s dream closet.
From the floor to the ceiling mirrors, and racks of designer gowns organized by color. The air smelled
