Chapter 5: The Transformation
925 Words
The drive to Oscar Freire Street was silent. Bruno, the driver who resembled a refrigerator in a suit, seemed to have taken a vow of silence. He navigated the armored SUV through the Jardins district, gliding past mansions and high-end cafes.
Oscar Freire was the Beverly Hills of Brazil. It was a street where the pavement was cleaner than Livia’s kitchen floor, where the trees were manicured into submission, and where security guards in dark suits stood outside every glass door.
The car stopped in front of Lumière. It was a terrifying boutique. No mannequins. No prices in the window. Just a single, spotlighted gown on a pedestal and a heavy glass door with gold handles.
"I will wait here, Mrs. Ferraz," Bruno grunted. It was the first time he had used her new title. It sounded like a code name.
Livia stepped out. She was wearing her "best" outfit: the gray leggings and the oversized t-shirt she had slept in, paired with her worn-out sneakers. She hadn't packed anything else, and she refused to wear the damp blazer from yesterday.
She pushed open the heavy door. A bell chimed softly, a delicate, expensive sound.
The interior was freezing. It smelled of expensive candles and judgment.
A woman walked toward her. She was tall, thin as a rail, dressed in severe black, with a blonde bob so sharp it could cut glass. Her eyes scanned Livia from top to bottom, pausing on the sneakers with a microscopic sneer.
"Deliveries are in the back," the woman said, her voice icy.
Livia stopped. A flush of shame heated her cheeks, hot and sudden. She thinks I'm the courier. Of course she did. Livia looked like she had wandered in from a different planet.
"I'm not a courier," Livia said, lifting her chin. She remembered Stefano’s note. Ask yourself if the woman staring back owns the room. "I am Livia... Livia Ferraz. I have an appointment with Cláudia."
The woman’s face went through a fascinating series of contortions. Shock. Horror. And then, a terrified, plastic mask of obsequiousness slammed into place.
"Mrs. Ferraz!" The woman—Cláudia, presumably—clasped her hands together. "My deepest apologies! We... we weren't expecting you to be so... understated."
"I like to keep a low profile," Livia lied smoothly.
"Of course. Of course. Very chic. Very modern." Cláudia gestured frantically to a junior assistant who was hovering in the background. "Champagne? Sparkling water? Espresso?"
"Water," Livia said. "And clothes. I need something for the Charity Gala tonight."
"The Museum Gala," Cláudia nodded reverently. "Black tie. High society. We need something spectacular. Something that says 'The new queen has arrived'."
For the next two hours, Livia was poked, prodded, and draped in fabrics she couldn't pronounce.
"Too frilly," Cláudia dismissed a pink chiffon.
"Too severe," she sighed at a black velvet.
"Too... pedestrian," she sneered at a simple red sheath.
Livia felt like a doll being dressed for a game she didn't know how to play. She stood on the podium in the VIP dressing room, surrounded by discarded silk and tulle. She felt exhausted.
"I don't like any of them," Livia admitted, looking at herself in a gold lame dress that made her look like a Ferrero Rocher wrapper. "I feel... costumed."
"You are playing a role, chérie," Cláudia said, adjusting a pin. "Fashion is armor."
"Then I need better armor."
The bell at the front of the shop chimed again. But this time, the sound was different. The air in the shop changed instantly. The chatter of the assistants died. The music seemed to fade.
Cláudia froze, her hands hovering over the gold dress. She looked at the reflection in the mirror behind Livia, her eyes widening.
Livia turned around.
Stefano was standing in the entrance of the VIP suite.
He looked like a storm cloud that had decided to wear a suit. He was dressed in navy blue today, a shade that made his tan skin look richer and his eyes darker. He had one hand in his pocket, the other holding his phone. He wasn't looking at Cláudia. He was looking at Livia.
His gaze swept over the gold dress, his lip curling slightly.
"Take it off," he said.
It wasn't a suggestion. It was a command that echoed off the mirrored walls.
Livia bristled. "Hello to you too, Stefano. I didn't know you were coming."
"I was in the neighborhood," he lied. He walked into the room, his presence sucking all the oxygen out of the space. "And I don't trust Cláudia’s taste when left unsupervised. She tends to favor trends over elegance."
Cláudia looked like she wanted to melt into the floorboards. "Mr. Ferraz. We were just experimenting..."
"You are dressing her like a trophy," Stefano said, walking around the podium. He circled Livia slowly, like a predator inspecting prey. "Livia is not a trophy. She is a weapon."
He stopped in front of her. He was close. Too close. Livia could smell him—that maddening mix of sandalwood and peppermint. Her heart did a traitorous flip in her chest.
"Go to the back," Stefano said to Cláudia, not looking away from Livia. "Bring the Midnight Silk. The one from the private collection."
Cláudia gasped. "The Rossi design? But... sir, that dress is... it's very..."
"Bring it," Stefano cut her off.
Cláudia scrambled away, taking her assistant with her. Livia and Stefano were left alone in the room of mirrors.
"You're micromanaging," Livia whispered. "Clause 4 didn't say you get to be my stylist."
- Writer
