In a city of sheep ruled by wolves, she became the python that pulled them apart.
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Sage Black is a girl of little opportunities, forced to see the seamy side of life growing up in New York. Witnessing what lengths billionaires will go through t...
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Madam Clémence is a plump woman with too-short arms, adorned in ruffles and puffs that remind me of a Victorian seamstress, and I wonder how she can possibly be a stylist of this age. She walks in short, shuffled steps between where I stand on a platform to take my measurements and the other side of the room where an array of colorful gowns is hung on mannequins.
But surely if she's Mrs. Roman's personal stylist, then she must be good at her job—excellent even. So I try to stand as still as possible while she painfully pinches at my waist, and prods the thin layer of fat over my stomach, pins jutting out of her pierced lips.
Shaking her head, she tuts disapprovingly. "You move too much, young girl." Her words are thickly coated in a French accent, pronouncing her r's gutturally from her throat.
I can only nod, afraid that if I speak, the needles in her hands will pierce my skin. When she steps away, giving me her back, I finally let out a breath I've been holding and watch as she shuffles away.
"I'm sorry, but is this going to take much longer?"
I refrained from asking this question when the first hour passed as I stood there, in one of the guestrooms of David's penthouse. I only had a glimpse of the opulent reception before I was rushed up the grand staircase by Madam Clémence to be fitted for a gown. But it's now nearing the second hour, and I'm getting tired. I'm also anxious that we won't have a dress sewn up before the gala starts. The seamstress is yet to adjust my measurements to whatever dress she's putting together. It's a good thing the event is being hosted downstairs.
She ignores my question, holding out two different fabrics in each of her hands; one a deep seaweed color, the other a shiny maroon. "You have nice dusky skin. These bold shades will contrast your skin, make you stand out like a star. Are you South Asian?"
"No, but my Mom's Persian, and my father's black. And I was actually thinking of something subtler," I suggest. The idea of standing out in a room full of these people sounds terrifying. "Nothing grand, just simple."
She whips her head to me with a shocked look, a deep crease forming over her fair forehead. She frowns as if I dishonored her. "Simple?! For the Roman's Annual Thanksgiving Fundraiser? Impossible!" She drops the materials in her hands and makes her way to me, running her hands over the tight bodice on my body. "No, no, no. You have the nice figure, mon chéri. Yes, maybe no breasts, and your thighs too muscular like the man, but still, nice figure. And beautiful skin. We must make use."
I wince as she pinches my thighs. "Thank you, Madam Clémence. But these are my only requests—to make it simple. Please."
She huffs, pushing her glasses up her nose bridge, and I think she's about to scold me again, but she softens her expression. "Fine. As you wish."
༺༻
An hour later, I understand why Mrs. Roman chose this seamstress as her personal stylist. Her hands are a magical pair, and what could've taken weeks to sew together took her a mere three hours, transforming a plain piece of fabric into something lavish.
