The interior of Julian Sterling’s limousine looked less like a motor vehicle and more like the backroom of a Paris fashion show that had just been hit by a tornado.
Inside there were two professional makeup artists hovering over me, a hair stylist frantically holding a can of hairspray like a loaded weapon, and a rack of vintage fur coats swaying gently as the driver navigated downtown traffic.
“Head up, Miss Fox.
Do not blink,” the lead stylist, a tiny French woman named Genevieve, barked.
She slapped a cool layer of heavy foundation onto my cheek with the force of a bricklayer applying cement.
“Ow!
Genevieve, please,” I choked out, trying not to open my mouth too wide.
“I asked for a high-society makeover, not a face transplant!” “You are twenty-two,” Genevieve said flatly, grabbing a contour brush that looked large enough to paint a fence.
“To make you look like a terrifying fifty-year-old matriarch who spends her winters in Monaco and drinks the blood of her enemies, we must sculpt.
Now be still.” Sitting across from me on the plush leather seat, completely untouched by the surrounding chaos, was Julian Sterling.
He had an iPad in one hand and a crystal glass of sparkling water in the other.
He looked entirely relaxed, like a man who routinely paid people to turn broke twenty-two-year-olds into senior citizens on wheels.
“Focus, Miss Fox,” Julian said, not even looking up from his screen.
“Page three.
Who is your late husband?” I pulled my eyes away from Genevieve’s terrifying array of fake eyelashes and glanced at the heavy brown paper folder sitting on my lap.
“My late husband,” I recited, pitching my voice down into a deep, raspy, theatrical smoke-and-velvet tone, “was Lord Archibald Sterling the Third.
A brilliant, tragic man who tragically lost his life in a tragic polo accident off the coast of Capri.” Julian paused.
He slowly lowered his iPad and looked at me.
“Polo accident?” “Yes,” I said, nodding solemnly.
“A stray flamingo startled his horse.
It was very dramatic.
National news in Italy.” “He died of a heart attack in his sleep in 1998,” Julian corrected coldly.
“Do not invent flamingos, Miss Fox.” “Mr.
Sterling,” I said, gesturing wildly with the paper, nearly impaling Genevieve with my elbow.
“A heart attack is boring!
Nobody remembers a heart attack.
People remember the man whose polo horse was spooked by a tropical bird!
It adds texture to my grief!” “We do not need texture,” Julian said firmly.
“We need historical accuracy.
The high-society wolves at this gala have known my family for generations.
If you start spouting nonsense about wild flamingos, Richard Montgomery will catch onto us within five minutes.” “Who is Richard Montgomery?” I asked, squinting at page seven.
“The patriarch of the Montgomery Group,” Julian explained, his tone darkening slightly.
“A ruthless, old-money vulture who has been trying to execute a hostile takeover of Sterling Enterprises for a decade.
He will be at the gala tonight with his unbearable daughter, Victoria.
If Richard suspects you are a fraud, he will use it to publicly question my competence in front of the board of directors.” I leaned back, letting out a low whistle.
“So let me get this straight.
I’m not just saving your niece from a fortune-hunting leech.
I’m also acting as your human shield against a corporate vulture?” “For fifty thousand dollars, you are whatever I need you to be,” Julian replied smoothly, taking a slow sip of his water.
“Page ten.
What is your opinion on Devon’s family?” I flipped the page, skimming the bullet points about Devon Vance’s family shipping business.
“My opinion,” I said, putting on my oversized, dark-tinted Chanel sunglasses and tilting my chin up to a ninety-degree angle, “is that the Vance family shipping company is a glorified canoe rental service.
They haven’t turned a profit since the turn of the century, their lineage is utterly tacky, and their family crest looks like it was drawn by a colorblind toddler.” Julian stared at me.
For a long, terrifying second, the limousine was dead silent except for the hiss of Genevieve’s hairspray.
Then, Julian slowly set his glass down on the wooden side table.
The dark, dangerous smirk I had seen back at my apartment returned to his lips.
“Passable,” he murmured.
“Though you should emphasize the canoe comment.
Devon’s father is particularly sensitive about his cargo pool.” “Oh, I’m going to destroy his cargo pool,” I promised, smirking back.
“I’m going to make him feel like he’s sailing a paper boat in a storm.” “Done!” Genevieve suddenly gasped, stepping back and clapping her hands together like a mad scientist admiring her creation.
“Mon Dieu, it is a miracle.” I looked into the handheld mirror she thrust in front of my face, and my jaw dropped.
It was incredible.
Through the magic of heavy contouring, sharp eyebrow arches, strategic dark lip liner, and a sleek, silver-streaked wig pinned into a high, aristocratic chignon, I didn’t look like Roxie Fox anymore.
I looked like a woman who owned three yachts, sued people for fun, and had never washed her own dishes in her entire life.
Genevieve draped a heavy, vintage mink coat over my shoulders and fastened three thick strands of blindingly real pearls around my neck.
“How do I look?” I asked, standing up as best as I could in the moving limo, adjusting the coat with a dramatic flick of my wrist.
Julian looked me up and down.
His dark eyes lingered on my face for a second longer than necessary, a strange, unreadable expression passing over his features before his stoic mask slammed right back into place.
“You look terrifying,” Julian said, his voice dropping an octave.
“Like a woman who would cut her own son out of her will for wearing the wrong shade of shoes.” “That,” I said, slipping my dark sunglasses back over my eyes, “is the highest compliment I have ever received.” The limousine slowly came to a smooth stop.
Outside the tinted windows, flashes of white light flooded the glass.
We had arrived at the Grand Imperial Hotel.
Red carpets, dozens of paparazzi cameras, and a line of ultra-wealthy guests in floor-length gowns and tuxedos stretched all the way to the gilded entrance.
My heart gave one violent, nervous thump against my ribs.
This is it, Roxie.
Fifty thousand dollars or total social execution.
Julian stood up, adjusting his cuffs.
He offered me his arm, his expression turns dead serious.
“Remember the rules, Miss Fox,” he whispered, his face inches from mine.
“You do not apologize.
You do not explain.
You speak down to everyone in that room, and if anyone questions your identity, you look at them like they are insane for not knowing who you are.” I wrapped my gloved hand around his arm, feeling the solid, terrifying warmth of his muscle beneath the charcoal suit.
“Mr.
Sterling,” I whispered back, flashing a wicked, fifty-thousand-dollar smile.
“Sit back and enjoy the show.” CREATORS’ THOUGHTS Bel_Rose And we’re officially at the gala!
Guys Roxie as a terrifying fifty-year-old Monaco matriarch is already pure chaos, but can she actually fool the high-society wolves?
Or is Julian’s $50,000 investment about to blow up in his face?
What was your favorite line from the limousine makeover?