But now … now things are different. I’m not afraid of death. I’ll come at these guys with everything I have. I’m not afraid of them anymore.
I stuff the photograph back into the drawer and try to put everything back in its original place before leaving. I head straight for the bedroom to gather my stuff because I need to go back to my suite and think. I need to write, put these thoughts down on paper, and try to connect the dots.
Madison’s death was the catalyst. It was the beginning of the end for me, that was all I was sure of anymore.
My fingers are flying across the keyboard, and the words in Sans Serif font quickly follow, filling the screen with words. More and more words. My phone suddenly vibrates on the end table, and without even looking, I know who it is. I haven’t heard from him other than the note he left.
I’ve chalked it up to him being busy. It’s also given me enough time to think and regroup. Now more than ever, I need to embed myself into his life. It’s a precarious enterprise, being around the rest of the guys, but I need to find out what they’re hiding. Even if it’s just a simple dinner with all of them, or another night at the club where they’re all bound to be. If Baz won’t take the plunge and have me meet his friends, then I will.
Whatever it takes.
Saving my work, I clench my hands into fists, then stretch my fingers out for a much-needed break. I’ve been at it for the past three hours. Once I have everything shut down, I finally reach for my phone.
My heart skids to an abrupt halt when I read his message.
There’s no way?
It can’t be.
It can’t be this easy.
Baz: I have to attend a gala tonight, and I’m in need of a plus one.
I type out a quick response.
Mackenzie: None of your other girl “friends” were available on such short notice?
Baz: Funny.
Mackenzie: As fun as that sounds, I don’t have anything to wear to an event like that.
Baz: That’s already been taken care of. Just give me the OK.
There’s no guarantee his friends will be there, but I’m not willing to pass up the opportunity. What better way to gain his trust? Things are going a lot better between us than I originally expected if he’s already asking me to attend an event with him. After everything I read up on Baz, I didn’t take him for the type to move this fast. I thought for sure I’d have to jump through more hoops, but apparently, that’s not the case, and I can’t say I’m upset with the turn of events.
Without my consent, the butterflies take flight in my stomach, roaring with a vengeful force. I place a trembling hand over my stomach and close my eyes.
“We can do this. We’ve got this. I’m going to get to the bottom of this, Madison. I promise.”
Even though she’s gone and has been for years, I swear I hear her affirmation.
“One step at a time. He’s eating out of the palm of your hand. Keep him there.”
Mackenzie: OK.
Everything that happens afterward is a whirlwind. Baz calls to tell me Dan and a few others will be coming up to the penthouse. He tells me I can expect a stylist, a hair stylist, and a makeup artist. It’s just like Baz to go out of his way to bring these people here to doll me up when I just could’ve used the resort’s spa.
After shutting everything down in my suite, I head up, and Dan strides into the penthouse with his signature no-nonsense look. Ever the professional, he barks off orders, much as I expect Baz would if he were here. Each person sets their station up pretty quickly. The nail techs set up in the living room. One goes straight to work on my hands, the other on my feet, and then a third woman reclines the chair back, so she has access to my face, where she goes to town plucking and threading my brows.
“Oh, honey, just look at these roots.” A gorgeous, pixie looking woman clicks her tongue down at me as she toys with my hair. Subconsciously, I shrink on the chair, chiding myself for not touching up my roots as often as I should while I’ve been here. I knew changing my outward appearance was going to be tough, but had I known keeping up with the charade was going to be this difficult, I would’ve said to hell with it.
When Baz said he’d handle it, I had no idea this was what he meant. I just thought there would be a dress waiting, and I’d slip into it before he got here. It appears this gala is a lot more glamorous than I thought. Maybe that’s why he waited until the last minute to ask me to go. Maybe he knew if I had any clue all this would’ve happened, I would’ve politely declined.
After what feels like hours of being colored, primped, and primed, the stylist, an Asian man with a septum piercing and an eccentric personality, rolls over a rack of gorgeous gowns. With my hair and makeup done, I stand awkwardly as he appraises me. His brows are drawn in, and he walks around me several times, making humming noises with each pass.
I shift awkwardly on my feet and look down at myself. It’s the curves. It’s obvious I’m not a size zero like a model. Instead, I’m more of a JLO or a Kardashian. My backside is always the issue. But I’ve learned to embrace them—the curves—and I won’t let his little noises of disdain tear me down.
Finally, he comes to a halt in front of me, his eyes lingering on my hips. I tighten the sash of the robe around my waist, shifting uncomfortably under the scrutiny of his gaze.
“Perfect!” He claps his hands and pivots. The hangers scrape along the metal rack as he pushes dresses aside. He pauses to glance back at me, then resumes his search. When he finds what he’s looking for, he hoots.
“I have been dying to dress someone in this, and Mama, let me tell you something. These curves, mixed with this dress? A complete knockout.”
The gown he pulls off the rack is beautiful. It’s a nude, off-the-shoulder, jewel-embellished gown with a short train. I shoot a wary glance at the stylist, worried the material of the dress might be too see-through for a gala, but he urges me on.
“This is Ralph & Russo couture, honey. If you don’t wear this, I will.”
Much to my surprise, the dress isn’t as see-through as I thought. The nude seaming meshes perfectly with my skin tone, creating the illusion that I’m completely nude underneath.
Since the top is completely see-through, save for the jewels, the stylist sticks nude-colored pasties over my nipples. The diamonds and mesh lining are a theme throughout the dress, and in the mirror, it’s hard to deny how incredible it looks on me. The slit on the left side of my leg starts tapering open just beneath my hip and the dress flares out to the right side into a train. The thin gold strap at the top of my shoulder tapers down, across my chest, and off the other shoulder asymmetrically.
The stylist—Wren, I learn is his name—uses a brush and squirts gold, glittery liquid on top of the bristles, then rubs it all over my upper body and legs.
“Christ. You look like a golden goddess. I think this is my best work yet.”
He guides me toward the floor-length mirror, and my eyes widen as I take in my reflection. With the gold strappy heels, I really do look like a golden goddess.
“This dress is insane,” I whisper, making Wren laugh.
“Tell me about it. The only person who has worn the exact replica has been Alessandra Ambrosio at the Oscars After Party in 2018. She wore it so well, not many stylists or women want to wear it out of fear they won’t do it justice, but honey, you’re giving that woman a run for her money.”