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Royal Psycho: Night, love.
CHAPTER 4
liv
I’m lost.
I do not belong in the quirky shop on one of the royal lanes, and it must be blatant, either from the look on my face or my secondhand band T-shirt, because a perfectly put-together adult who looks, for some strange reason, like she could be my age, smiles at me and asks, “Can I help you?”
She’s also blonde, though hers is more honey than my almost-white mess. People assume I bleach my hair. That’s an expense I can’t afford, so I don’t; it just happens to grow super pale right out of my skull. Hers is swept in an elegant updo. Her makeup is perfect, and she looks so svelte in her pencil skirt.
I wouldn’t even know how to walk in one of those.
Presumably, I can’t ask her how I can become her, so I blurt, “I need a dress.” With a wince, I add, “For Le Luminaris.”
I’ve gone back and forth on it since I woke up at eleven. Do I go? The sane, logical answer is hell no, but apparently, I’m still a cat, because I want to. I want answers. I can always tell him to shove his offer where the sun doesn’t shine again if I want to, but I’d still like to hear why he thought to ask me. Why no one else will do.
All right, I’m flattered. It’s stupid, but who can say that they were followed and propositioned by someone of the caliber of Callum fucking Noble? No one I know, that’s for sure.
Then when I decided to go, I had to start thinking about how I was going to dress.
Her eyes widen. “I see. I’ve never been, myself, but we’ll have what you need.”
She proceeds to talk my ear off about fashion as she leads me directly to a changing room that looks like it should belong to a princess. Everything is pink or gold, with rich velvet and lace. The room’s larger than my bedroom, with a deep plush loveseat.
I really can’t afford this place.
Except I have two and a half thousand euros in my account that don’t belong to me, sent exactly for this purpose, so I suppose I do. Maybe. Possibly.
“Most people make the mistake of assuming that because Le Luminaris is so exclusive and costly, it’s meant for formalwear, but from what I’ve observed—we do have many clients that frequent the restaurant, I assure you—that’s not the case.”
Maybe I should be offended, but I’m glad she’s assumed I’ve never been, because I need all the help I can get.
“Lum is…how could I say it? The pre-game of the in crowd. They dine there before heading out to a party elsewhere.”
I nod, happy I didn’t attempt to pick out something myself.
I combed through pictures taken at the notorious club, and honestly the clothing was eclectic; some people wore dresses worthy of a Cannes red carpet, but others just threw on jeans and a sparkly top.
“So, clubwear, huh?”
“Highborn clubwear,” she specifies, nose scrunching up. “You’re meeting a man or a friend?”
I snort. “Why can’t it be both? And I could be gay.”
She doesn’t roll her eyes, but I can tell it takes some effort to prevent herself from doing so. “You didn’t notice my low neckline. Pardon the assumption.”
“It’s a guy,” I admit. “But it’s not a date, we’re just…talking about something.”
Her eyes rake probingly over my body, taking it all in. “Thirty-six, twenty-five, thirty-two, yes?” She doesn’t let me reply. “You can remove your clothing and put on a dressing gown. I’ll be back shortly.”
I only have a second to get changed and sit down on the soft sofa before she’s back, several items in hand.
“I forgot to ask about the budget,” the woman says. “These are between five hundred and three thousand, will that suit?”
I blink, and nod. “I guess, yeah.”
It’s wild to me that one single outfit could cost so much; I think the single most expensive piece of clothing I own as of today is a two-hundred-buck coat—and that was a splurge. The winters get arctic up here in the mountains, so I bought a ski jacket in the off season.
