Chapter 28 Ethereal

Chapter 28 Ethereal
I stared at my reflection in the mirror, my eyes wide.

The woman in the mirror looked like me, moved when I did and was gaping at me the way I was gaping at her.

The woman with shiny pin straight blonde hair, red covered lips, mascara lined eyes was me.

This wasn’t a scene where a make up artist waved her brush like it was a wand and helped me discover my beauty.

I’ve always known I was beautiful. My mother was a modeling sensation, I’d grown up seeing her pictures on billboards and posters.

Seeing her face that was so much like mine, confidently grinning at the camera.

I have even had countless admirers before I met Collin. Been gaped at.

Complimented and shown off.

But it was just information about me I’d grown up with, a part of me.

In the same way I knew that my name was Iris Astor and how tall I was, was what my beauty had meant to me. Just something else about me.

I’d never stared at myself in the mirror and been viscerally moved by the person staring back at me. Stunned by how beautiful she was.

For the first time I was paying attention to this detail about me that I’d haphazardly stored away and I was dazed.

Ugly.

Fat.

Collin’s words rang in my ear while I stared dumfounded, wondering how he ever sold that lie to me.

My eyes watered and Giselle the make up artist who had been one of the women to escort me out of Nicholas office smiled at me. “Perfecta, no?” 

She was Spanish and even though she wasn’t a fluent English speaker, I didn’t need a translator to know what she was saying. 

“Yes,” I whispered, my voice small, my breath lost. “Perfect.”

She grinned then left, seconds later she returned with Lucas in tow who barely spared me a glance before tsking, “To think that you were hiding such huge beautiful hair in an ugly bun. Ms. Iris, you’re the one that gives pretty people like us bad names.” 

I couldn’t believe it when my lips twitched with a smile.

The French man had done nothing but grate on my nerves ever since I’d been transported from Nicholas’s office—without my consent, I might add. My attempts to ask where I was being taken had been ignored entirely and then I was abandoned with Giselle and an eight-word sentence.

“Make her look less… whatever this is,” he’d said, whispering something under his breath about how fashion-unaware some people were before briskly walking away.

But I couldn’t help it, the obnoxious stylist with a god complex was growing on me.

This time I followed him voluntarily as we left the make up room to a larger room that looked like a luxury department store had exploded inside it. 

There were rolling clothing racks everywhere I looked with different clothes hung on it and someone standing in front of it in questionable clothing. I was no longer taken aback by their ridiculous outfit which Lucas had told me was a way of expressing themselves.

I still believe that one could express themselves with a shirt and comfortable jeans, a sentiment that I’d voiced.

But, it had done nothing but earn me a dirty look from Lucas who had grumbled in French that art was wasted on my generation, even though he didn’t look a day older than thirty.

I stood by the side, a little bit fascinated as Lucas started walking the length of the room, his hand at his back, his face expressionless as he carefully observed the clothes in front of him, sometimes feeling the fabric then nodding or glaring at the person who was standing by the rack.

“What’s happening?” I asked Giselle in a hush whisper.

“Inspection. They pick dresses for you… muy bonita… beautiful. Lucas, very angry. Sometimes, very happy.”

I nodded, trying to make sense of the broken English. It seemed that I was not the only one that was at the receiving end of Lucas’ dissatisfaction, feeling a little bit better and grateful that I was no longer at the receiving end of that glare. Even as I watched people that I’d guess were his styling assistants try hard not to break under the severity of his scrutiny.

“Green?” He barked. “Look at her. What made you look at that hair and go, leaf?” He asked. The boy pinned his stare to the floor. “I said, look at her.” He snapped making the boy —who I’d guess was much younger than me by at least four years— meet my eyes. 

I smiled self consciously, waving my hand at him like a little fool. 

Lucas glared at him, “You saw that pale skin and thought, green?“ 

“And you, with the blue pantsuit that even my grandma won’t wear,” he told the next girl. “I said the theme was ethereal but somehow you heard ancient. What is this?”

“And you, that look would be perfect if the intention was to make her look so 2019,” he accused another.

“Yellow?” He looked disgusted. “Don’t you dare mention my name as your teacher.” He informed a girl whose face was now pale.

When I was almost sure that Lucas' intention was to make his trainees cry and not to find me an outfit, he stopped in front of a girl who was beaming confidently. “Marcela, who are you holding?”

She lifted a black dress off the rail and albeit myself, my lips parted. 

“Vanessa Hughes. It’s a vintage piece, 1990 Winter Collection. The diamond beading at the neckline was hand sewn by more than ten internationally acclaimed stylists.”

He turned to look at me then smiled, “it seems that your dress is here.”

Then he patted the preening girl in the hair and dramatically exhaled. “Thank you.” Then turning to the distraught faces around him, he said a bit aloud. “At least someone actually listened to the theme.”