Chapter 27
Then I said the words that would change the course of history.
“I need a makeover.”
Silence.
Utter. Pure. Stone-cold silence. Even the cat stopped chewing on the curtains.
Jhing Jhing’s eyes twitched. “A what?”
“I need to look like a goddess.”
Mylene blinked rapidly. “Did you hit your head? Are you okay? Blink twice if this is a cry for help.”
I slammed my spoon down. I've already told them about Ray’s losing money in the casino. “I’m going to the casino, and I plan to win big. But to do that, I need to walk in like a storm in a dress. Like thunder with lipstick. Like vengeance wrapped in silk.”
More silence.
Then Mylene snorted so hard she nearly fell off the couch. “You? In a dress?”
Jhing Jhing laughed so hard she choked on her cereal. “You haven’t worn a dress since Maya was born. You wear sneakers to funerals.”
“Exactly. No one will see it coming.”
I raised a single perfectly unplucked eyebrow. “You two will come with me. We will win.”
“How? I'm not good at math.” Mylene asked, eyeing the biscuit stuck in the baby chair.
Jhing Jhing added, “I'm not lucky as well.”
“Don't worry. I can win. I promise, plus, I’m paying. Salon. Spa. Shoes. Shimmer. Everything.”
They both sat up straight like I’d said, “Free cake.”
That was easy.
We stormed into the boutique like a tornado wearing sunglasses.
The saleswoman—immaculately polished and clearly allergic to children—took one look at the juice-box-covered kids trailing us and said, “Can I help you?”
“Yes,” I replied, “I want a dress that screams: I’m rich, beautiful, and might stab someone.”
She blinked. “So… bold?”
“Deadly.”
Few minutes later, the kids were thrown into the nursing room with cookies and soda and with their part-time nannies.
Mylene ran to a rack of sequined gowns and began twirling them like a Disney villain. “Ooooh, what about THIS? You’ll blind a man from thirty feet!”
“No sequins. I’m not a disco ball. I need something classy.”
Jhing Jhing appeared holding a red dress with a neckline so low it needed a warning label. “What about this one? This will make the patron’s jaw drop.”
“That’s not a dress. That’s dental floss with ambition.”
We fought. Oh, how we fought.
There were ten rejected dresses. One got stuck over my head and I swore I almost died. Another was so tight I couldn’t breathe and Jhing Jhing had to unzip me while Mylene held my arms back like we were exorcising a demon.
Finally, I found it.
And they found something for themselves as well.
After two hours.
What I got was a sleek, backless black number with a slit high enough to make angels weep. It fit like it had been made for me—hugging all the right curves, making me look like money and revenge had a baby.
“Oh damn,” Mylene whispered. “This is a dress that starts wars.”
“I look like a Bond villain,” I said.
“Correction: a Bond villain with custody of the kids.”
Then a few minutes later, after yet another scream from Jaya and a milk bottle mishap from Ivy, we stumbled into the designer shoe store next. That’s where things went off the rails.
And then—heels shopping.
Heels. Heels everywhere.
Can I even handle that weapon? Me the badass of all badasses in heels?
Of course.
Maybe not.
Glitter. Gold. Studded. Laced. Stilettos that looked like medieval weapons.
Mylene tried on a pair of six-inch boots and immediately fell on her butt. “Okay. These are trying to murder me.”
Jhing Jhing held up thigh-high boots and grinned. “I can’t feel my toes but I look like Beyoncé.”
I found a pair of black stilettos with silver trim—sharp enough to count as a concealed weapon.
“These,” I said.
The saleslady nodded solemnly. “Those are called the Widowmaker 3000.”
“Perfect.”
No.
It was very far from perfect.
The horror.
How do women walk in these things? They’re not shoes, they’re medieval stilts for fashion gladiators. I put on one glittery death trap and nearly dislocated my spine. “You’ll get used to it!” Mylene said while balancing like a gymnast. I looked like a baby giraffe trying to stand on an ice rink.
By the time we reached the dress section, I was emotionally broken. Sequins. Slits. Cleavage. I’d worn combat armor more comfortable than this. But the worst part?
I saw myself in the mirror.
And… I didn’t look like a monkey out of the forest anymore. I didn’t look like Catherine-the-barely-functioning-mom, or the woman who once googled “what is a lip stain and is it fatal?”
No. I looked hot.
Like walk-into-a-casino-and-make-men-weep hot.
“Damn,” Jhing Jhing said.
“You dress up too well,” Mylene added.
Then I almost tripped on my heels and broke a mannequin.
But if the boutique was madness, the salon was war.
We booked a “VIP Triple Treatment” at a high-end place downtown.
They were not ready.
The moment they saw us and the kids (whom I had bribed with emergency iPads and gummy bears), the staff collectively sighed like soldiers marching into battle.