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After dinner, the restaurant team and musicians left.
Julian and Faith exchanged one look and immediately understood each other.
“Taylor, do you want to swim?” Faith asked as if the idea had just occurred to her.
“No.
I need to sleep.”
Taylor looked dazed.
“You are tired.
Go rest.
Good night.”
Faith waved her off.
The moment Taylor went upstairs, Faith threw herself into Julian’s arms.
“What were you thinking during the dance?” she asked, tapping his chest.
“That Taylor Swift is terribly unattractive,” Julian said honestly.
It was the direct reason he had decided she needed a makeover.
Faith laughed.
“She is obviously talented.
You cannot judge her only by looks.
Wait.” Faith propped herself up and studied him.
“Why are you paying so much attention to Taylor’s looks?”
“Simple.
I own the record company.
I have to evaluate a singer’s commercial value.”
Faith accepted that explanation.
Then her smile turned dangerous.
“I want to play the piano with my body.”
Good God.
The truck had been her idea, and now the piano.
If Julian had not been reading magazines on the plane, would she have suggested the lavatory too?
He lifted her easily.
“I have a better idea.
Leave the piano for next time.”
Pieces of clothing marked their path.
Upstairs, Taylor lay in bed and tossed from side to side.
Finally, she got up, took a large notebook from her luggage, and began writing lyrics.
It was a love song, titled “Love Story.”
She tried a few lines, then crossed them out almost immediately.
Why was her head full of dancing and dinner?
Her mind felt like paste.
Taylor pushed her hair back.
Normally, Miss Faith would be beside her at a time like this, offering a prompt or correction.
After a few minutes, she decided to go find her teacher.
Downstairs, the main hall was empty enough to feel eerie.
Then Taylor noticed Faith’s knitted cardigan on the floor.
Farther ahead lay an inner sweater.
Beyond that, a pair of Chanel round-toe flats.
It felt like following clues in a treasure hunt.
Piece by piece, she collected almost all of Faith’s clothing.
Including a damp piece of black silk underwear that made her stop breathing for half a second.
The trail led to the stairs down to the basement.
Then she heard Faith cry out.
Worried, Taylor rushed down.
Her footsteps clattered on the stairs, and water echoed from below.
At the bottom, she discovered the basement pool.
Faith was at the pool’s edge, looking at Taylor with helpless irritation.
“Why are you down here instead of sleeping?”
The words had barely left her mouth when something under the surface made the water shift.
Faith’s body tensed for a heartbeat, and her attempt to kick beneath the water had no force at all.
“I…
I cannot sleep,” Taylor said.
Then she noticed the large shadow under the water beside Faith.
The lighting was dim, and she could not make it out clearly, so she quickly looked away.
“Then keep trying.
You will fall asleep eventually…”
Faith’s voice caught, and she inhaled carefully.
“Miss Faith, during the dance, Boss’s hand slipped lower.”
Taylor blushed.
She felt she had to report it.
“What?” Faith snapped alert.
“Did he keep it there?”
“No.”
“Then it was probably an accident.
He is a little shorter than you, and I do not think he has any thoughts about you that way.”
Faith had heard Julian call Taylor unattractive earlier, so the reassurance came easily.
“If that is all, go upstairs.
I do not want to be disturbed.”
Her breathing turned controlled again.
Julian, under the water, had one grateful thought: ‘Good thing we didn’t choose the piano.’
The next day, Oak Street showed Taylor a different world.
It was one of Chicago’s most expensive shopping streets, lined with boutiques from Paris, London, Milan, and every other capital of luxury.
When Julian arrived with five fashion editors, Taylor was sitting on a bench and eating a hot dog.
“Oh, honey, girls cannot eat this kind of thing.
It goes straight where we do not want it.”
A male editor with long flowing hair and a thick beard plucked the hot dog from Taylor’s hand and tossed it into the trash.
“Your hair is too heavy, and the texture needs work.
What shampoo do you use?”
Another editor lifted a strand of her hair.
He was tall and broad, but his voice was razor-thin.
“And those shoes.
Straight into the trash.
You are a star, not a camp counselor on her day off.”
A third editor, wearing dark green frames and an expression of professional despair, shook his head.
Within minutes, the editors had found more than a dozen flaws and reduced Taylor to a silent patient awaiting surgery.
She knew what they were here to do, so she stood very still.
Julian handed her an American Express Centurion card.
“See how much damage you can do.”
Then he turned to the editors.
“I do not want a New York modern girl, and I do not want Milan runway ice.
I want a retro aristocratic young lady.
Someone who could take a cab straight to the set of a lavish Sissi remake and play the lead.”
“Her face is narrow enough, and the flaxen hair can work.”
Julian checked the time.
“Including lunch, you have eight hours.”
After Taylor was swept away, Julian looked at Faith.
“Come on.
To the car.”
“Give me a break,” she said, giving him a look that contained a trace of fear.
The previous night had been humiliating in a way her body still remembered.
“Resting is exactly why we are going to the car.
What are you thinking?”
Faith blushed.
She realized she had walked straight into the trap.
“Fine.
But you are not touching me.”
Once the door closed, Faith caught his collar and pulled him toward her.
“I changed my mind.”
After hours of shopping, Taylor returned loaded down with luxury bags.
It took real effort.
By the end, the front half of the rear cabin was nearly full, and the once-spacious interior felt crowded.
Gucci, Louis Vuitton, Dior, Chanel, Cartier, Bulgari, Tiffany, Fendi, Ferragamo, Jimmy Choo, Van Cleef & Arpels, Balenciaga, Boucheron.
Taylor had nearly emptied the street.
When she looked up, she saw Faith slumped in a seat, eyes closed, brows drawn together, arms limp, head against the privacy glass.
She looked almost faint.
Her clothes were rumpled, and the buttons of her cardigan were clearly wrong.
Julian, in the back row, was putting on his shoes.
“Faith did some exercise and overdid it,” he said after a moment.
Taylor’s eyes jumped between them.
She did not look convinced.
“You were putting on shoes,” she said, narrowing her eyes like a detective.
“I took a nap in the car,” Julian answered without changing expression.
Taylor looked at Faith with concern.
Her teacher’s face was flushed like ripe fruit, and her hair was damp as if she had been running for miles.
She kept murmuring something Taylor could not make out.
“Leave her alone,” Julian said.
“She is just exhausted.
We will get her a sports drink when we get back.”
Then he studied Taylor.
“Those editors know what they are doing.”
The girl-next-door style was gone.
Taylor had transformed.
Her thick curls had been thinned, smoothed, and pulled into a simple ponytail, generous but refined.
She wore a cream dress with a faint Greek-classical feeling, one shoulder bare, the other decorated with a floral detail.
The hem fell to her ankles, and a high side slit opened naturally when she sat beside Faith, revealing long pale legs.
On her feet were Valentino strappy heels.
Julian felt the urge to send the fashion editors a bonus.
Taylor, however, did not look happy.
“Embarrassed?” he asked.
From his angle, he could see her looking out the window.
The traffic and buildings of Chicago reflected faintly in her blue eyes.
Taylor had seen real urban wealth for the first time that day.
Chicago was America’s third city, second only to New York and Los Angeles in scale and power.
Its infrastructure, towers, and continuous rush of money dwarfed Nashville.
“I…”
She did not know how to explain.
It had been the most extravagant day of her life.
For the first time, she had walked into luxury stores one after another.
For the first time, she could buy without checking the price.
For the first time, she learned that buying a Hermes bag could require a purchase history, that Bulgari sold watches, that people could surround you to choose jewelry, fasten shoes, and handle every detail so you did not even have to bend down.
For one moment, she really had felt like a young noblewoman from another century.
It was dreamlike.
The Dior crystal dress alone cost sixty thousand dollars, more than most Americans earned in a year.
Once she added the jewelry, shoes, and accessories, the total exceeded anything Taylor had ever imagined spending on clothes.
For Julian, it was as easy as buying a bottle of Coke from a corner store.
Eighteen-year-old Taylor finally understood how unequal people could be.
No wonder so many people dreamed of marrying money.
He had tilted resources toward her, swapped tickets with her, danced with her, and now spent an absurd amount on her.
Miss Faith had told her not to worry, but Taylor could not shake the weight in her chest.
Julian was being too good to her.
Too good for a boss.
He seemed almost indifferent to whether he would get his money back.
The more she thought about it, the heavier it felt.
What if her album failed?
None of this could be returned.
She knew Julian probably would not care, but she still felt guilty.
“It is fine,” Julian said.
“If this album does not sell, we prepare the next one.
You will break through eventually.”
“What if none of them sell?”
“Then it still does not matter.
I will keep pouring resources into you.
Money, connections, businesses, everything I have.
I will do everything I can to help you reach your dream.”
After these few days, Julian could feel that Taylor was not only a future superstar.
She was a living person: a driven eighteen-year-old from Pennsylvania who loved junk food, worried about her image, and wanted a bigger stage.
Taylor froze for a second, then turned back toward the window.
No one spoke for the rest of the ride.
Silence said enough.
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