Fake Date, Real Fate
Chapter 168: Prepping the Masterpiece

Chapter 168: Prepping the Masterpiece

My legs still tingled from where Adrien’s hands had been during the drive—and the kiss that had left my lips warm, my heart borderline feral, and my head in some cloud I had no intention of coming down from.

Thomas greeted us with a polite bow. "Mr. Walton. Ma’am." His voice was as smooth and deep as the polished mahogany of the grand staircase that swept up into the shadows behind him.

Adrien led me to the sofa and I sank into cushions so deep I felt I might never get out. He didn’t sink, of course. He belonged here, his posture relaxed and easy against the dove-grey velvet. Then Thomas handed me a chilled glass of juice.

I gave him a smile. "Thanks, Thomas."

I had barely taken two sips of the chilled juice in my hand before Thomas leaned subtly toward Adrien and asked, "Sir, should we begin?"

Begin what? I looked at Adrien, one brow raised.

He gave a small nod.

A moment later, a woman stepped into the room. Tall and effortlessly looking. Her hair was pulled back into a sleek low bun, her lips painted the kind of perfect crimson that said I wear couture in my sleep. She was dressed in a crisp black ensemble that looked like it cost more than my rent, and she carried herself like someone who had no time for mediocrity.

"Good evening," she said with a single nod.

My glass nearly slipped from my fingers.

I knew that face.

I whipped toward Adrien so fast my neck cracked. "Is that—? Wait. Is that Ruth Gates?"

He didn’t even blink. "Yes."

I stared at him. "The Ruth Gates?"

Adrien hummed. "Mhm."

"The Ruth Gates?" My voice cracked somewhere around the "G." "As in... the Ruth Gates who styled that actress for the Lucent Ball and made the fashion blogs combust for a week? The Ruth Gates who literally vanished from the public last year because she only works by private invitation now? That Ruth Gates?"

Adrien just took a sip of his own drink like this wasn’t earth-shattering news. "That’s her."

My grip tightened on the glass. "You... invited Ruth Gates here?"

"She owed me a favor."

A favor. A favor. What kind of favor made the fashion unicorn herself show up at your house like a Door Dash delivery?

If Aria were here, she would’ve flat-lined. I could already picture her scream. Her actual soul would’ve exited her body just to bow in her presence.

Before I could catch my breath, Ruth clapped her hands twice.

And then chaos descended.

The grand doors on the far side of the room swung open, and a team of at least six people, all dressed in discreet black, swarmed in pushing in racks and racks of the most dazzling, glittering, dreamlike clothes I had ever seen. Gowns in whispery silks, dresses dripping in crystals, structured suits in bold velvets and satins. Accessories sparkled on rolling trays, shoes in every imaginable heel height, masks of lace, leather, and gold leaf. They moved with a whispered efficiency that was more unnerving than a stampede.

Behind them came two men—flamboyant, stylish, and already arguing about lip tone and undertones. Another woman followed with a tall case labeled hair kit. Someone else walked in with nail polish bottles that looked like they cost more than my rent.

"I called in a few friends," Ruth said mildly, as if she hadn’t just summoned the Avengers of glam.

My mouth dropped open. I actually felt it drop.

Tomorrow.

I had assumed tomorrow would be the day of chaos—the fittings, the frantic makeup trials, the rushed last-minute decisions. Not today. Today was supposed to be soft. Warm. Cuddled under a blanket with Adrien and maybe just existing. Not this high-speed fashion takeover that felt like a fashion cover shoot collided with a high drama budget.

"Adrien," I said slowly. "The gala is tomorrow."

"I’m aware," he replied smoothly.

"But the prepping is today?"

Adrien turned toward me, calm and too gorgeous for his own good. "Of course my love," he said. "You prep the masterpiece ahead of the unveiling."

I blinked. "I thought prepping meant just picking a dress."

Adrien’s lips curved into a smile that was both indulgent and deeply amused. "This is just picking a dress," he murmured, his voice a low thrum that vibrated right through the soft sofa. He reached over, tucking a stray strand of hair behind my ear, his touch sending a fresh shiver down my spine. "For you, picking just a dress deserves the best."

Before I could form a coherent reply, Ruth Gates was in front of me. She’d shed whatever jacket she’d been wearing and now stood in a silk shell top and impossibly sharp trousers. She appraised me not like a person, but like a beautiful, unfinished sculpture. Her eyes, a piercing shade of grey, scanned me from head to toe.

"Alright, enough gazing," she said, her voice crisp and devoid of sentiment. She gestured for me to stand. I obeyed, feeling like a soldier being called to attention. She tilted my chin up with two perfectly manicured fingers, turning my head from side to side under the soft light of the chandelier. "Good bones. Luminous skin. We can work with this."

It was the most terrifying compliment I had ever received.

Then the glam squad—the Avengers of Glam, as I’d mentally dubbed them—were on me. The two men, who I learned were Marco and Julian, immediately began a passionate, whispered debate over my hair.

"An elegant chignon, Marco, it’s the only way. Classic. Timeless."

"Julian, darling, no. We are not matronly. We are ethereal. Loose waves, a whisper of a braid... something that says she woke up like this after dreaming of starlight."

I was gently but firmly guided to a plush armchair that had been placed in the center of the room, facing a large, portable, three-panel mirror lit with pretty bulbs. While my hair was being pinned, sprayed, and coaxed into a style that was somehow both a structured updo and a cascade of soft curls, the woman with the makeup case went to work on my face. Brushes whispered across my skin, dusting on powders that smelled faintly of roses and money. A tiny pot of something shimmery was dabbed onto my eyelids, and my lips were lined with a precision that could have guided a laser. I felt less like a person and more like a priceless artifact being restored.

Through it all, I kept glancing at Adrien. He hadn’t moved from the sofa, watching the entire spectacle with an expression of quiet satisfaction, his drink resting on his knee. He looked like a king watching his court prepare for a royal ceremony, and in a way, I suppose he was.

Finally, the masterpiece was complete. Marco and Julian stood back, arms crossed, nodding in sync like proud parents. My makeup was flawless—smoky, dramatic eyes, and a nude lip that made my mouth look fuller. My hair was a work of art.

But the transformation wasn’t over. Ruth clapped her hands again. "The clothing."

I was gently guided behind a tall, freestanding screen and stripped down to my underwear by a quiet assistant who averted her eyes with professional grace. The first dress was brought in. A gown of emerald green velvet so rich and deep it seemed to drink the light. It felt heavier than my winter coat and fit like a glove, but when I stepped out, Ruth dismissed it with a single wave of her hand. "Too severe. It’s wearing her. Next."

Next came a confection of layered tulle in palest blush, embroidered with tiny, iridescent flowers. I felt like a fairy princess. "Too sweet," Ruth decreed. "This is a masked gala, not a debutante ball. There must be mystery. Next."

There was a structured column of silver that made me feel like a sci-fi goddess, a slinky black number with a dangerously high slit, and a dramatic crimson gown with a cape that made me want to stride across a battlefield. Each was dissected, discussed, and dismissed.

"Too ingénue."

"The color will wash her out."

"It would wear her; she wouldn’t wear it."

Through it all, I kept catching Adrien’s eye. He was watching the entire spectacle with a look of pure, unadulterated delight. He wasn’t just enjoying the clothes; he was savoring me—my wide eyes, the dazed spin I did, the way I lit up when the silk caught the light. When our gazes locked, he winked, a silent message of shared amusement that grounded me in the glittering madness.