Page 41 of Shattered Throne
"Darling."
My breath caught. She noticed. A small smirk played at the corner of her mouth.
"Better?" she asked innocently.
I cleared my throat. "Much better. We'll continue this later," I said, standing. "I'll call my sister about getting you something to wear."
Kim stood too, frowning as she smoothened her skirt. "I have clothes."
"Not for this, you don't. Trust me." I walked her to the door. "Isabelle will make sure you fit in."
She looked like she wanted to argue. But she just nodded and walked out. I watched her go and tried to ignore the way my pulse was still racing from the way she'd saiddarling.
This was going to be harder than I thought.
The day of the dinner, Kim arrived at my apartment at four o'clock.
She stood in my doorway, overnight bag in hand, wearing jeans and a simple blouse. Her hair was pulled back in its usual ponytail. No makeup that I could see.
She looked completely out of place against the chaos behind me.
Isabelle's people had arrived three hours earlier and turned my penthouse into a battlefield. Garment bags hung from every available surface. Makeup cases covered my dining table. Two women in black were arguing about lighting near my windows while a third steamed something on a rack.
"What," Kim said slowly, "is happening?"
"Isabelle happened." I stepped aside to let her in. "She takes fashion very seriously."
One of the women in black descended on Kim immediately. "You must be Kim. I'm Renata. Isabelle sent me personally. We have a lot of work to do."
Kim shot me a look that promised retribution. I smiled and retreated to the kitchen for coffee.
They spent two hours getting her ready. From my position at the breakfast bar, I watched Renata and her team work. They circled Kim like sharks, holding up fabric swatches, debating hemlines, discussing her "coloring" and her "undertones."
Kim sat in the middle of it. She didn’t complain or scowl. She just let them do their work. I caught her eye once, raising my coffee cup in a mock toast. She did not look amused.
Then the dresses came out.
The first was red. Bold, with a neckline that plunged lower than Kim seemed comfortable with. She emerged from my bedroom wearing it, her arms crossed over her chest, her expression murderous.
"No," I said.
"Thank God." She retreated to change.
The second was silver. Sleek, modern, with geometric cutouts that showed glimpses of skin. Kim looked like she was about to attend a futuristic gala, not a family dinner.
"Too much," I said.
She nodded and disappeared again.
The third was pale pink. Soft, romantic, with a full skirt that made her look like a princess in a fairy tale. It was beautiful. It was also completely wrong for her.
"It's not you," I said.
She raised an eyebrow. "You know what's me?"
"I knowthat'snot."
More dresses. A black one that was too severe. A green one that washed her out. A blue one that was pretty but forgettable.
