The Makeover
354 Words
The sun hadn’t even cleared the horizon when a black Rolls-Royce pulled up to Elara’s modest HDB block. The contrast was laughable—a car that cost a fortune idling next to overflowing communal bins.
Two hours later, Elara was standing in a dressing room at a private boutique on Orchard Road, surrounded by three women who treated her like a mannequin.
"Mr. Vane was very specific," one of them said, holding up a gown the color of midnight. "Nothing too modest, nothing too loud. Sophistication is the goal."
When Elara finally stepped out, she barely recognized herself. The dress was silk, clinging to her curves in a way that made her feel exposed despite the floor-length hem. Her wild curls had been tamed into a sleek, expensive wave.
The door to the boutique opened, and Julian walked in. He was in another dark suit, looking like he’d never slept a day in his life and didn't need to. He stopped dead when he saw her.
The silence stretched. Elara felt a blush creep up her neck. "I look like a stranger," she muttered, tugging at the silk.
Julian walked a slow circle around her, his gaze intense. It wasn't the look of a man checking a business asset; it was the look of a man who had just realized his asset was beautiful. He stopped behind her, looking at her reflection in the triple-mirrors.
"You look like a Vane," he corrected. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a velvet box. Inside sat a diamond so large it looked heavy. He took it out and took her left hand.
His touch was firm. As he slid the ring onto her finger, he leaned down, his lips ghosting against the sensitive skin behind her ear.
"Tonight is the Founders' Gala," he murmured. "Everyone will be looking for a c***k in our story. If you're nervous, lean into me. If you’re scared, look at me."
"And if I want to run?" Elara asked, her voice shaking.
Julian’s grip on her hand tightened just a fraction. "Then run toward me, Elara. Nowhere else is safe."
- Writer
