Page 43 of Mexico Can Choke On It
Sebastian doesn’t deny it.
“This is Gavin Brinkman’s younger sister.”
“Impossible!” Sebastian’s eyes narrow as he scans me. “That breathtaking specimen of masculine refinement and this street pigeon share DNA? The universe cannot be so cruel!”
“Well, this is off to a super fun start,” I mutter.
“Accompany me!” Sebastian commands. “Time is evaporating, and we have mountains to scale!
We’re given no choice but to follow him into…The Room.
Sweet baby RuPaul, this isn’t a dressing room—it’s a palace! Crystal chandeliers dangle from the sky-high ceiling with white carpet so plush, my boots sink in with every step. There’s a champagne bar sparkling in the corner. Empty clothing racks line the walls, and a circular platform with a tri-fold mirror setup stands in the center, ready to showcase every possible angle of my self-loathing.
“Let us begin the transformation. But first, Mr. Sterling, is she allergic to anything? And by that, I mean fabrics, not quality and taste.”
“Just judgment and pretentious assholes,” I shoot back. “Oh, and polyester. My nipples aren’t a fan.”
“How very… specific.” Sebastian lifts his iPad and jots something down.
Bryce clears his throat. “She’ll need options for daytime excursions, poolside attire, and… sleepwear.”
“B, you know my thoughts on sleeping in the nu—” I start.
“And,” Bryce cuts me off, “several appropriate dinner options for Casa Cashmere.”
Sebastian, who’s been scribbling notes with manic intensity, freezes mid-swipe. “Casa Cashmere?” He whispers the name like a sacred incantation.
His head whips between Bryce and me as his eyes bulge with horror, and he clutches his iPad to his chest.
“You bring me THIS—” he gestures at me as if I’m a contagious disease “—for CASA CASHMERE? TheSANCTUARY of STYLE? The EPICENTER of ELEGANCE? Where Muffy Von Cashmere herself holds court, passing judgment on the fashion elite?”
“Well, she sounds like an absolute peach,” I say dryly.
“It is beyond impossible! The style chasm is too vast! It would be kinder to send her naked.”
“If anyone can make her Casa Cashmere-ready, it’s you,” Bryce says smoothly. “And I’ll increase your commission by ten percent for the challenge.”
“It is true. Sebastian Bellini has never encountered a fashion crisis he couldn’t reinvent. I embrace this test!”
He snaps his fingers twice. On cue, a dozen women materialize from hidden panels in the walls. Long limbs, glossy hair, cheekbones that could cut a diamond—all in sleek black outfits and stilettos that make no sound when they walk. They don’t blink. I’m not sure they evenbreathe.
Sebastian addresses them. “Today we transform this fashion catastrophe from a rebellious trash-dwelling troll… into a resplendent Rivera goddess!”
With a wild gleam in his eye, Sebastian is now a commander pacing before battle.
“I require Chanel—thegoodpieces, not the tourist collection! GUCCI—but only ones without those nightmarish logos! Valentino. Oscar de la Renta. No Prada. No Dior. Too many florals this season, and God knows her personality brings enough unsolicited color to any outfit!”
The model-assistants all nod in unison.
“And I want accessories. Bring me Cartier, Tiffany, something aggressive. Something that warns the other guests. Something that says:I bite.”
He snaps again. They vanish.
Thirty excruciating minutes and several unwanted measurements later—including my left ankle, which Sebastian insists is a crime against symmetry—I’m stuffed into a cream Chanel tweed suit that feels like a suffocating straightjacket.
“Well?” I attempt a graceful twirl, but my legs are practically zip-tied together. I wobble on heels thinner than medical needles. “Do I look the part? Like I marry for money and can fake climaxes with enthusiasm?”
“The tragedy is unbearable,” he deadpans. “This woman is the CEO of a startup that sells overpriced candles smelling of peppermint and regret.” He snaps twice. “Next!”
