I dragged myself out of bed and into the bathroom, where my reflection looked like exactly what I was—someone who’d been up until 3 AM working on acustom order. Dark circles under my eyes, stubble past the ‘artfully scruffy’ stage and straight into wilderness man territory. I splashed cold water on my face and tried to tame my hair into something that didn’t resemble a bird’s nest.
“ALEX!” Twyla’s voice carried up the stairs, followed by rapid footsteps. “You better be decent because I’m coming in!” My apartment door banged open, and moments later, Twyla burst into the bathroom, nearly giving me a heart attack. She was vibrating with excitement, her bright yellow cardigan clashing gloriously with her purple hair. Today she’d twisted her micro braids into an elaborate updo anchored with what looked like tiny brass bees.
“Why aren’t you dressed yet? We have so much to do!” She hopped on the edge of the tub, swinging her feet. “Kronos said you’d be difficult, but honestly, it’s almost noon.”
I raised an eyebrow at her. “It’s 8:30, and I just woke up.”
“Semantics.” She waved dismissively. “Anyway, your thing is downstairs, and we need to make sure it fits before the alterations lady leaves at three, and then we have to do something about…” she gestured at my face, “all of this.”
“What’s downstairs? And what’s wrong with my face?” I dragged a hand through my damp hair, smoothing it back from my forehead. My skin was clear except for the stubble. I thought I looked good.
“Your tux, obviously. Nothing’s wrong with your face—it’s one of your better features.” She grinned. “Just needs a little maintenance.”
“Mywhat?”
“Your tuxedo.” She enunciated each syllable like I was a slow child. “The one Kronos ordered for tonight’s gala.”
My stomach dropped. “Gala? What gala? He just said formal.”
Twyla’s eyes widened. “He didn’t tell you? The Winter Solstice Gala at the Metropolitan Museum downtown. It’s liketheevent of the season.” Her voice dropped to a dramatic whisper. “I heard tickets start at ten thousand dollarsper person.”
My knees felt weak, and I sat heavily on the closed toilet lid. “Tenthousand?” The number made my head spin—that was over six months’ rent on my apartment. “That’s—he can’t expect me to—There’s no way I could ever pay him back for something that expensive.” I shook my head, trying to clear it. “I can’t go to something like that.”
“Why not?” Twyla crossed her arms, her excitement giving way to concern. “You’ve been seeing him for weeks now.”
“We’re notseeingeach other,” I corrected. “We’re just…” What, exactly? Fucking? That didn’t seem to cover the dinners, the way he’d pamper me after he did filthy things to me, how he’d read to me from whatever book he was into that week while I dozed against his chest. “It’s complicated.”
“Uh-huh.” She didn’t look convinced. “Well, complicated or not, there’s a twenty-thousand-dollar custom Armani tux downstairs with your name on it, and a very intimidating woman with pins waiting to make sure it fits your butt perfectly.”
I choked on my toothbrush and definitely swallowed some toothpaste. “Twenty thousand—? Absolutely not. That’s insane.”
“Too late. He already paid for it.” She grabbed my hand, tugging me toward the door. “Come on, you can freak out while Madam Beaufort sticks pins dangerously close to your important bits.”
Resistance was futile. I ended up letting her drag me downstairs to the back room of the shop, which had been transformed into an impromptu tailor’s studio. A rail had been installed along one wall, from which hung the most intimidating piece of clothing I’d ever seen—midnight blue velvet so dark it was almost black, with subtle satin lapels and what appeared to be actual silver buttons.
A severe-looking woman with steel-gray hair pulled into a tight bun stood beside it, tape measure around her neck like a snake. She looked me up and down with the clinical detachment of a butcher assessing a cut of meat.
“Zis is him?” Her French accent was so thick I half-suspected it was put on. She circled me, clicking her tongue. “He is more muscular zan Monsieur Orestes described. Ze shoulders will need adjusting.”
“I’m standing right here,” I muttered, which earned me a sharp tap on the shoulder with her measuring tape.
“Stand straight,” she commanded. “Arms out.”
The next hour was a blur of being prodded, measured, and pinned within an inch of my life, all while Twyla flitted around, offering unhelpful commentary and sneaking photos ‘for posterity.’ By the time Madam Beaufort declared herself satisfied “Ze shoulders are still problematic, but we do what we can with ze time,” I felt like I’d been through some bizarre form of torture. Like a butterfly struggling against its wings being pinned by a sadistic nine-year-old.
“This is ridiculous,” I hissed once the tailor had retreated to her corner with pins in her mouth, making swift alterations to the jacket. “I can’t accept this. And I can’t go to some...some high society gala where everything costs more than I make in ten years.”
Twyla sat beside me, nudging my shoulder with hers. “Why not?”
“Because I don’t belong there!” I gestured helplessly. “I work in a trinket shop. I make leather wallets, for fuck’s sake.”
“You makeart.Also, watch it. I own that trinket shop,” she corrected. “And you belong wherever you want to be.”
I snorted. “Yeah, tell that to the society pages when they ask who I am.”
“So, what would you say?” She tilted her head. “If someone asked?”
I looked away, unable to meet her earnest gaze. “I’m no one special.”
