Chapter 6
Kara
Nordstrom is bright and warm and overwhelming.
The lights are too bright. The air smells like perfume and new clothes and money. I feel like an alien who just landed on another planet.
Everyone's staring at me. My wet boots squeak on the polished floor. My ratty parka drips melted snow. I look like a drowned rat in a palace.
Sophia and Emma don't seem to notice. They drag me straight to the juniors' section, pulling clothes off racks faster than I can process.
A red off-shoulder sweater. Tight black jeans. A cobalt-blue bodycon dress. A leather jacket that probably costs more than Luna Victoria pays me in a year.
"Try this!" Sophia shoves an armful of fabric at me.
"And this!" Emma adds another pile.
I stumble into the dressing room, my arms full of clothes that feel like they're burning my skin.
These cost more than I've ever owned in my life.
My hands shake as I strip off my wet jeans and threadbare sweater. I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror—pale, bony, bruised knees from scrubbing floors—and I have to look away.
Don't think about it. Just try the damn clothes.
The first outfit: black skinny jeans and a red sweater. The jeans hug my hips in a way that feels foreign. Tight. Deliberate.
I step out hesitantly, tugging at the hem.
Sophia shakes her head. "Seven out of ten. The jeans are great, but the red is too loud. It washes you out."
Emma nods. "Agreed. Next!"
Okay. Not a disaster. Keep going.
Second outfit: a royal blue dress with a fitted blazer. The fabric is soft and expensive, molding to my body like it was made for me.
I smooth the dress over my hips, staring at my reflection.
Who the hell is that?
"Nine out of ten," Emma says, tilting her head. "You look amazing. But it's too formal for a party. You'd look like you're going to a business meeting."
Sophia nods. "Save it for later. Try the skirt."
Third outfit: a black pleated mini skirt, a white sweetheart-neckline blouse, black tights, and black heeled ankle boots.
The skirt is short. Like, really short. The blouse dips low enough to show the curve of my breasts.
Oh my God.
I walk out slowly, tugging at the hem of the skirt. "Isn't this... too short?"
Sophia jumps to her feet. "Ten out of ten! That's the one! Oh my God, Kara, your legs are insane. Why have you been hiding them?"
Emma grins. "And your boobs look great in that top. Seriously, you have a killer figure."
I stare at myself in the mirror.
Holy shit.
The girl looking back at me doesn't look like a servant. She doesn't look like someone who scrubs toilets for a living.
She looks... pretty.
No. Not pretty. Hot.
Something twists in my chest. Pride? Hope? Terror?
What if this actually works? What if someone notices me tomorrow?
Sophia hands me the boots. "Try these on. Three-inch heel. You need to practice walking in them."
I slip them on. Take a step.
Oh, fuck—
I wobble. My ankle twists. I flail, grabbing the wall for balance.
Emma catches my arm, laughing. "Okay, runway practice time. Walk up and down the aisle until you've got it."
And so I do. Back and forth between the racks, stumbling at first, my ankles screaming in protest.
This is ridiculous. I look like a baby deer.
But by the tenth lap, something clicks. My hips sway naturally. My steps are smooth. Confident.
I'm doing it. Holy shit, I'm actually doing it.
Sophia claps. "Perfect! Now you're ready."
I look at myself in the mirror one more time.
Maybe. Maybe I can do this.
By the time we arrive at Emma's house, it's six o'clock and the sun has already set. The sky is a deep indigo, stars starting to prick through the darkness.
Her home is massive—a sprawling estate in Anchorage's wealthiest neighborhood, all floor-to-ceiling windows and modern architecture. The driveway is heated, so there's no snow. Just smooth, perfect pavement.
Of course.
Emma's bedroom is bigger than the entire first floor of Midnight Estate's servant quarters. A king-sized bed with a white fur throw. A walk-in closet that could fit my storage room three times over. A vanity table with more makeup than I've ever seen in my life.
This is what normal people have, I think, staring around in awe. This is what life looks like when you're not a fucking debt slave.
"Sit," Sophia orders, pointing at the vanity chair.
I sit.
My heart is pounding so hard I'm surprised they can't hear it.
What if I look worse after? What if they realize I'm a lost cause?
For the next hour, they work on me like I'm a sculpture and they're the artists.
Sophia curls my hair with a hot iron, creating thick, glossy waves that cascade past my shoulders. She sprays it with something that smells like vanilla and makes it shine like liquid gold.
Emma does my makeup. Foundation to even out my sallow, underfed complexion. Concealer under my eyes to hide the permanent dark circles. Highlighter on my cheekbones that makes my face look sculpted instead of gaunt.
Winged eyeliner that makes my brown eyes look huge and mysterious. Earthy eyeshadow in shades of bronze and gold. Mascara so thick my lashes look like fans.
And finally—a bold, matte red lipstick.
Red. Like blood. Like power.
"Okay," Sophia says, stepping back. Her voice is breathless with excitement. "Put on the outfit."
I change into the black skirt, white blouse, tights, and boots. My hands are shaking so badly I can barely zip the skirt.
What if I look stupid? What if they laugh?
"Don't look yet," Emma warns. "Close your eyes."
They position me in front of the full-length mirror. I can feel their hands on my shoulders, steadying me.
"Now. Open."
I open my eyes.
And I forget how to breathe.
Holy. Fucking. Shit.
The girl in the mirror isn't me. She can't be. She has glowing skin and soft, glamorous waves of golden hair that catch the light. Her eyes are sultry and deep, framed by dark lashes. Her red lips are confident and striking—sexy, even.
The black-and-white outfit hugs every curve—tiny waist, full chest, long legs that go on for miles.
She looks like someone who matters.
She looks like someone people would want.
My throat tightens. My vision blurs.
Don't cry. Don't you dare fucking cry.
But it's too late. A tear slides down my cheek, hot and shameful.
"Thank you," I whisper. My voice cracks. "I—thank you."
Before I can stop myself, I'm turning and throwing my arms around both of them. Hugging them so tightly I'm probably crushing their ribs.
I have friends. Holy shit, I actually have friends.
Emma hugs me back, her voice soft. "You were always pretty, Kara. We just helped you see it."
Sophia squeezes my shoulder. "You're going to blow everyone's mind tomorrow."
Did I just make friends? The thought loops in my head, dizzying and surreal. Is this what it feels like to be... normal?
For ten years, I've been invisible. A ghost. A piece of furniture.
But tomorrow?
Tomorrow, I'm going to be seen.
It's 7:30 PM when Sophia's Range Rover pulls up to Midnight Estate.
My stomach drops.
Fuck.
I've been gone all afternoon. I was supposed to be cleaning the ballroom, setting up decorations, arranging the dining tables for tomorrow's party.
Luna Victoria is going to murder me.
Or worse—she'll take it out on me in front of everyone tomorrow.
Emma leans over the seat, grinning. "So? Can we come in? Meet the triplets?"
Oh, hell no.
"No." I grab my bag, my heart pounding so hard it hurts. "They don't like visitors. And it's late. You should go home."
Please don't push. Please just leave.
Sophia pouts but doesn't argue. "Fine. But you better wear that outfit tomorrow. And text us pictures!"
"I will," I lie.
I don't have a phone. I don't have anything.
I climb out of the car, waving as they drive off. Then I turn toward the house.
The lights are on. The windows glow like eyes, watching me.
Please don't let them notice I was gone, I pray. Please. Just one more day.
I slip through the side door, my new boots clicking softly on the tile. I hold my breath, listening.
