When Perfect Meets Crazy

I knew I was signing up for a proper gala. I had been to a few of those thanks to my parents but I wasn’t prepared for just how proper. There were no flashing cameras and pens with notepads poised to take statements outside the hotel so I figured it would be a low key event where they’d rake in a hundred thousand or so at the end of the night. I was off. Way off. The second I stepped into the suite Ellie procured for dressing me up -a presidential suite- I knew I was having my very own debut as Cinderella, a not so poor kid moonlighting as royalty for a night. Icing on the cake, this was all for a dance and like the fairytale, I had to be home before midnight. All that was missing were blonde hair and glass slippers. Ellie could probably arrange for glass slippers if I asked but as for the hair, I was too attached to my nappy curls to consider anything else.

“Sit,” she ordered, delicately lowering herself into the plush leather chair opposite mine.

I obeyed. This was uncharted territory for me. Not ruffling her feathers was especially important since I needed her willing and pliable for when I pumped her for information.

With a wave of her hand, the swarm of people standing to the side, armed with clothes, flat irons and what I figured were boxes of makeup surrounded me. Damn. My jaw fell open, eyes widening with surprise until my mom’s voice filled my head, reminding me to act dignified, to not slouch or stare too long. To close my mouth and smile politely like it was no more than I expected. To not make mistakes.

I started to sit up straighter and smile before it registered that she wasn’t physically present to assess my behaviour and hiss corrections as soon as the people she wanted me to impress turned away. I let out a deep breath. Get it together. You have work to do.

“So,” I leaned forward as much as the man working on undoing my hairdo allowed and pasted a smile on my face, “how do you know Mask... uhm...” I faltered, forcing a taut laugh as I tried to recall his real name. “Bl... uh... Ian! Ian. How do you know Ian?”

I really needed to stop calling him Masked Idiot. That was fucking close.

A woman with a makeup brush and palette slid between us, obstructing my view of Ellie’s face and by extension, her reaction. I flashed the woman a scowl she didn’t so much as bat a lash at as she proceeded to wipe my face clean with a makeup wipe, then work her way up to powdering my face. Reactions and body language were very important in reading people. In knowing what made them tick and when you were getting warmer. Both my parents swore by it so clearly, it worked. My mom was senior partner and my dad, the sheriff. Plus, it helped me to not be just another socially irrelevant nerd at school. My people handling and troubleshooting skills were what made me, and I quote, ‘the fixer, a real life HBIC.’

Unfortunately, with the unrepentant makeup artist obstructing my view of Ellie, I couldn’t read her to know what was a lie, what wasn’t, when I was getting warmer or completely shooting a blank. Move, damn it.

Despite my efforts to manoeuvre her to the side, the artist staunchly refused to budge. Asshole.

I knew how these galas went. There was a very high probability I wouldn’t see Ellie again for the rest of the night if I didn’t ask her the questions now.

“Ellie, how long have you known Ian?” My tone was conversational, tentative and just in case she could see me, I pasted a smile on my face.

“You know he has a girlfriend, right?” she countered in a tone that was just centimetres away from hostile.

It took all my willpower to refrain from rolling my eyes.

“That’s nice,” I managed.

Information about a girlfriend was useless to me and if I was interpreting her tone correctly, Ellie had me pegged for a boyfriend thief, never mind that she actually couldn’t pay me her entire net worth to date Masked Idiot. His criminality aside on the list of reasons why I wouldn’t go near him with a six foot pole, he wasn’t even that cute. He was normal white boy cute. I had dated guys like him before and it was nothing particularly special.

“We aren’t... We are nothing like that. I would never,” I expanded, in a bid to get her on my side. Babe, the only thing I want from Masked Idiot is his permanent disappearance from my life.

just so you know,” she informed.

It said, I couldn’t care less and

but with the makeup artist obstructing my field of

sentence that usually got people talking. For some

know

way, it reminded me of the day Masked Idiot started officially stalking me, after I met with Martha and Emily, when I failed at using one of my tricks on him. Was someone teaching rich people how

gaze, she turned her head to side, nodding to one of the seemingly endless army of helpers. Where Cinderella needed mice, lizards and a pumpkin, I apparently needed

Their designer labelled garment bags. My brows furrowed as my gaze involuntarily shot to the girl who brought me into this dimension. ‘Are the clothes for me?’

a top three,” she

makeup artist returned at that moment but while I hadn’t been able to so much as get her to budge an inch, a flickered glance from Ellie had her standing to

I had

eyes on her. Her silvery obviously couture satin suit practically screamed it but as I

life like school, my jobs and my social life, I succeeded in separating my parents and their preferences from my actions but in these

sighed heavily. The dresses didn’t seem all that spectacular

inspection, I discovered a flowery pattern on the dress that had me questioning whether it really was satin or some expensive new material that wasn’t commonplace yet. The front fell in three transverse folds, the first mid-thigh, the second just below the knee and the last formed the end of the gown. The back on the other hand was a completely different design. It fell in overlapping longitudinal folds, like a curtain. I was almost certain I had seen this gown on the

practical mind discerned must have catapulted the cost from fancy to one percentile. I could already imagine the saleswoman snobbishly boasting, “It’s all hand stitched with the rarest

a heavily studded black dress. The neckline was crafted singularly of black precious stones that sparkled with all the colours of the rainbow when light hit it just right. The rest of the dress, with the exception of the sleeves -which like the neckline was also made solely of small precious stones that probably cost more than my tuition-

“That one,” I decided.

“You sure?” Ellie questioned.

firmly with my finger pointed at the nude

more my

into it soon enough,” she

to the endless list of questions

not, it’s females being paraded for the viewing pleasure of the males and whenever the cases were reversed, as opposed to several males being paraded, it would be just one. One self-assured handsome guy that we were all expected to fall in love it. To top it off, I hated being judged. If it were a debate, an assignment, a quiz, a job I had done or anything along those lines, I could stand it. That, I thrived on. Being judged on my appearance, my makeup, a dress

I knew what my mom would say if she was present. She’d berate me for dwelling on the problems like a loser and hiss through a smile that I should find a

from the girls who had been auctioned so far, it was family members, close friends and significant others forking out money. None of which I had in this crowd. It didn’t help that Masked

spoiled self-absorbed brat used to getting what he wanted and was born into the wrong generation for the condescending ‘they are play things’ view he had on women. He was the kind you instantly knew would treat everyone

averted my gaze hurriedly and hoped to God it was fast enough to not

modelling agencies had tried to recruit her and failed. Her beauty is not the mundane everyday kind. She is the kind men travel miles to behold. A one-in-a-generation kind of beautiful. And Estella is not only beautiful but also multi-talented. She is fluent in Spanish, French and German along with English. She excels at pianoforte and sings well enough to make a nightingale jealous,” the auctioneer cooed,

and anticlimactic but singing well enough to make a nightingale jealous was just too much cream. He had better not go that far when it was my turn. I tried