Total pages in book: 144
Estimated words: 133138 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 666(@200wpm)___ 533(@250wpm)___ 444(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 133138 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 666(@200wpm)___ 533(@250wpm)___ 444(@300wpm)
She huffs, snootily correcting me. “You mean get the outfit ready for me.” She finds her reflection in the mirror behind her and turns to assess herself, running her hands over her curves. Or where there would be curves if she had any.
“Riiight,” I agree. “Either way, we need to make a few adjustments.”
Chloe waves a hand dismissively. “I will wear whatever you give me.”
No shit. That’s literally your job, bitch.
My nerves are shot, my filter disappearing by the second, and soon, it’ll be one big, open netting with so many holes that there will be nothing stopping the angry thoughts that cross my brain from coming right out of my mouth.
“Stay here,” I order coldly.
Chloe ignores me but doesn’t seem to be a runaway risk, so I rush across the room to the spare bolts of cloth that are always brought for emergencies and cut off a strip of black lace. I had intended for Marisol to wear white lace because it contrasted with her olive complexion, but with Chloe’s fair skin, the darker color will better emphasize the image I’m going for.
“What’s this for?” Chloe asks when I return. She’s already stripped and pulled the shift dress over her body without my help, which is a big no-no that she’s well aware of as a model. I growl under my breath, wanting to bite her face off for it.
But my attention is drawn to my first piece. Chloe is closer to Marisol’s size, so this one won’t take too much alteration, but it does need some. I grab my pins and get to work, making tailoring adjustments here and there.
While I work, I give Chloe the run-down. “The theme of the show is Amour. This first dress is the date stage, where love is blind,” I tell her, bringing the lace up to my own face. “Don’t worry, you can see through it to walk. Now, let’s get this belt and drape fixed.”
It takes some time, but I get the dress fitted exactly how I want, giving Chloe a sexy but innocent appearance. She stands still as a statue as I do it, almost scarily absent from her body, but when I step back everything looks right.
Outfit one? Check.
Outfit two represents passion. It’s a tight red dress that’s similar to my own gala gown. Very Jessica Rabbit va-va-voom, but on the model, it’s not remotely as ‘cups spilleth over’ as my own dress was.
Outfit three is a white gown, a modern take that represents a wedding with a train that will spill out behind the model as she walks.
Outfit four represents marriage with a green satin, cropped pantsuit. The color is not to represent money, but growth. Both together as a couple and individually, each person grows as the relationship and love become bigger, deeper, and more filled with history.
And last but not least is my mourning dress, representing love put on pause . . . temporarily. It’s a large, sculptural piece in the deepest black with a full skirt and a ruffled collar over a V-neckline, which had seemed like a good bookend to close with after opening my first show with the caftan V-neck.
I help Chloe out of the shift dress and oh-so-carefully guide her into the mourning piece. “Love does not die when one of the lovers does,” I explain. “The drama of this piece is meant to represent the depth of loss but be a reminder that there is still beauty in the love, the time together.”
Chloe seems . . . bored by my descriptions.
This one has many more alterations needed, and I pin and tape, hoping I can get everything done. I’m muttering to myself as I work, nearly forgetting that Chloe is even a real person since she’s gone silent again.
“I’ll make your outfits look amazing. Don’t worry. You’ll win because of me,” she says after a long while. I look up in shock, and she winks at me cockily.
Wow. She’s an arrogant bitch, isn’t she?
But I see nothing but certainty in her eyes. I think I could give her greasy pizza boxes to wrap around her body and she’d still think she could rock them. I wish I had that much confidence, or at least a bit of it.
After taking the dress off her, I say, “Okay, why don’t you head over to hair and makeup while I start stitching these?”
To my surprise, she does exactly as I ask, although she’s nude other than a flesh-toned thong. I have an evil thought that I hope she gets a fungus on her ass from sitting in the makeup artist’s chair bare-assed. But then I get to work.
“You good?” Molly asks, seeing me sprawled on the floor with fabric everywhere, my scissors beside me, and my threaded needle peeking out of my mouth.
I hold up the Love Is Blind dress. “Model change.”