Page 36 of Alice Chen's Reality Check

Chase and I are split up the moment we arrive. Leah disappears somewhere while a PA escorts Chase to a different room, and I’m left alone.

While I wait, I take the chance to explore. The room I’m in is lined with clothing racks laden with barely-there bikinis, breezy maxi dresses, floral-print casual wear, and so much more that I can’t even begin to take in. Separate racks closer to the floor house footwear—flip-flops and sandals, high-top sneakers and sleek athletic shoes, and a fortune in Louboutin heels. I run my fingertips over the heels on one rack and estimate that I’ve touched over ten thousand dollars’ worth of merchandise in ten seconds.

A blush-pink curtain divides the room, and behind it is a gold-trimmed mirror reflecting still more racks of clothing. When I turn to examine them, I’m met with heart-stoppingly beautiful gowns in an array of jewel tones. My fingers brush up against one of the ball gowns—a sparkling, dark-blue floor-length dress with a plunging neckline and an ombré of gold cascading through the skirt.

“Ah, a Tadashi Shoji,” a smooth, deep voice says behind me.

I nearly jump as I yank my hand back. “I’m sorry, I—”

I trail off as I take in the extremely hot man in front of me. He looks like he’s just stepped out of one of those cheesy, over-the-top Old Spice commercials, the kind where the camera zooms out and reveals that he’s part centaur. His wavy dark hair is long and swept back. His shirt is unbuttoned, revealing a toned, muscular chest, and his jeans are entirely too tight for the fit to be practical.

“You’ve done nothing to apologize for,” the man purrs in an Italian accent. Honestly, that’s the only way to describe it. A purr. “In fact, you must try it on.”

I’m allergic to cats, my brain supplies, unhelpfully. My brain adds,but I love them anyway.I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. He’s beautiful to the point that he doesn’t even look like he belongs on this plane of existence.

I don’t think this moment can get any more surreal, and then it does.

“Let me help you,” he says, and his hand goes to my shoulder, where he begins to slip my tank top strap off.

“Wait,” I say, backing up a step and colliding with the rack of expensive dresses. “What are you doing?”

He deftly reaches out a hand to steady me. “Apologies, I’m Matteo, the head of the wardrobe department,” he explains. “You were told I’d be here to help you, yes?”

“Oh. Oh!” I relax a very small amount as my alarm is replaced with embarrassment. Of course. That’s what’s happening. The head of the wardrobe department is helping me…wardrobe.

“I will be dressing you for your next challenge,” he says. “And so I must ask you to try on that gown. It is meant for you. Go ahead.”

Matteo steps around the curtain, leaving me alone. I carefully take the gown off the hanger and lay it down on a deep-green velvet couch in the corner. I hurriedly strip out of my clothes and slip the gown over my head. It slides on so smoothly, it feels like I’m pouring silk over my body.

But when it comes to closing the back, I quickly realize it’s impossible. The zipper is unreachable, even if I twist and stretch to try to grab it. I grunt with the effort and nearly fall over.

“Everything all right in there?” Matteo calls.

I’m being stupid. I should ask for help. He’s here to help, right? This is his job and he’s a professional. Better to ask for the help than to risk ripping this delicate gown.

“I can’t quite get the zipper up,” I admit.

“I thought that might be the case,” Matteo says with a warm chuckle. “I shall assist you.”

I hold the gown in place to keep myself covered, and he joins me behind the curtain. He places his hands on my waist and gently turnsme around so he can tug the zipper up into place.

“There. A perfect fit. You are as gorgeous as I knew you’d be. You and this gown are a match made in heaven,” he says. Is this what wardrobe department heads do? Make ordinary and extremely hung over people feel like Paris Fashion Week icons for a day?

“Thanks” is all I can stammer out.

“You won’t get the full effect barefoot,” he says, dropping down on one knee and selecting a pair of Louboutins. He gently guides my bare feet into the mega-expensive emerald-studded heels.

I make my way to the mirror and all I see are dollar signs flashing like warning lights. I’ve never worn this much money before. I’m afraid to move. What if I ruin something and I have to pay for it?

“Now your hair. Let me see.” He gently pulls my hair out of the short ponytail I tied it up in when Leah came to get us. He runs his fingers through it, shaking it out. “So much shine and volume. You must wear it down,” he says. His fingers brush softly against my neck, and I feel myself blushing.

Matteo is definitely too close to me. I try to remember what makeover shows are like. Are the hosts usually this touchy-feely?

“No man will be able to resist you,” Matteo whispers in my ear.

Okay, that sounds a bit unprofessional. And also, as Cindy would point out, aggressively heteronormative.

My brain is kind of glitching, because as I look at myself in the mirror, several irrelevant thoughts spin through my head.

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