But when she opened her closet, reality mocked her. Thrift store blouses. Jeans with worn knees. One semi-nice dress that had already done overtime at the gala.
A knock on her door made her jump.
She wrapped her robe tighter, heart hammering, and peered through the peephole.
A woman stood there, elegant, older, holding garment bags and a professional makeup case. Behind her, two more assistants with shoe boxes and accessories.
Maeve opened the door slowly. "Um. Wrong apartment?"
The woman's smile was practiced, warm but not quite reaching her eyes. "Maeve Wells? Mr. Langston sent us. We're here to prepare you for the final round." Her gaze swept over Maeve's cramped living room without judgment, too professional for that. "May we come in?"
This was a test, Maeve realized. Carter, fle
