The Ultimatum (3)

ARIA

Elysium Boutique takes up the penthouse floor of the city’s most exclusive shopping district, and you can’t even get in without a private elevator and an attendant who checks your name three times before letting you through. Victoria breezes past the velvet rope, her name already on the list, while I get a once-over that’s quick and not exactly friendly.

“Mrs. Pierce-Taylor,” the boutique manager calls out, gliding over with all the grace of a runway model and a bun so tight it looks painful. “We received your urgent request. How may we assist today?”

Victoria leans in, dropping her voice like she’s about to leak government secrets. “Claudette, we have an emergency. My stepdaughter needs a complete wardrobe. Immediately.”

Claudette’s eyes flick over me, sharp and clinical, like she’s judging the quality of a steak she’s not planning to buy. “I see. And the... dimensions?”

Victoria doesn’t even blink. “Whatever you have in your largest sizes. We’re working with significant constraints—both in time and…” She lets the rest hang in the air.

My cheeks burn. They’re talking about me like I’m not even here.

Claudette’s lips twitch. “Perhaps Madame would be more comfortable at Generous Silhouettes on Fifth Street. They specialize in… fuller figures.”

Victoria’s voice drops to a hiss. “Absolutely not. This is a Harrington meeting. It’s Elysium or nothing.”

The moment the Harrington name drops, Claudette’s whole vibe changes. “Of course, Mrs. Pierce-Taylor. We’ll do what we can.” She claps her hands and suddenly there’s a small army of assistants in black, all moving with military precision. “Bring the resort collection samples. The ones we were holding for the runway models.”

What follows is two hours of pure humiliation. I’m measured, poked, squeezed into dresses that were clearly designed for women half my size. Every attempt ends the same: zippers stuck halfway, buttons straining, seams threatening to split across my hips and bust.

One assistant holds up what looks like a torture device in beige elastic. “Perhaps if Mademoiselle would consider shapewear…”

Victoria doesn’t even look up. “We’ll take all of it.”

Claudette returns with a navy sheath dress, the plainest thing in the store. “This might work if we let out the seams completely. It won’t be perfect, but for today’s meeting…”

I stand there while they literally sew me into the dress, pins grazing my skin. I feel like a mannequin, not a person.

“We’ll need to special order everything else,” Claudette stage-whispers to Victoria. “Custom sizes. It will take at least two weeks, even with rush service.”

Victoria just nods. “Acceptable. Send everything to this address.” She hands over a card. “And the bill to this one.” Another card.

When they’re done, I catch my reflection in the three-way mirror. The dress clings to every curve. The navy color makes my skin look even more washed out and tired. Next to Victoria’s perfect gray suit, I look exactly like what I am—an imposter, playing dress-up in a world that doesn’t want me.

“It will have to do,” Victoria mutters, glancing at her watch. “We’re due at the salon in twenty minutes.”

As we’re about to leave, Claudette sidles up to Victoria, voice pitched just loud enough for me to hear. “We’ll need to special order for her. Nothing in our regular inventory will accommodate those proportions.”

Victoria gives a solemn nod, as if she’s discussing a medical diagnosis. “Do what you can, Claudette. We’re working against nature here.”

I walk ahead, eyes locked on the elevator, silently begging the doors to open and swallow me whole.

Three hours later, I barely recognize the woman reflected in the car window as Victoria’s driver heads for Harrington Tower.

My hair’s been yanked into a severe chignon that pulls at my scalp. My makeup is heavy, sculpted to erase the softness of my cheeks and carve out cheekbones I never had. The shapewear squeezes my ribs so tight I can only manage shallow breaths. The altered dress pulls across my hips every time I shift. The heels pinch my toes until I can’t feel them.

Victoria breaks the silence as we approach the glass monolith that is Harrington Consolidated. “Remember: speak only when spoken to. Keep your answers brief. Let me handle the negotiations.”

I stare out the window, voice tight. “I still don’t get why Xavier would go along with this. He’s expecting Vivian. Thin, beautiful, connected Vivian.”

Victoria’s smile is ice-cold. “Xavier Harrington didn’t build an empire by letting emotions get in the way of business. The merger benefits him. Your… appearance… doesn’t matter to the bottom line.”

The car glides into a private garage, stopping at another elevator that needs a security card.

Victoria’s voice drops as we ride up. “One last thing. Xavier has a reputation with women. Many women. You will not mention it, acknowledge it, or act like you notice. The contract has specific clauses about discretion and public appearances. What happens privately is… not addressed.”

I turn to her, the weight of it all finally sinking in. “You really expect me to marry a man who’s going to cheat on me?”

She meets my eyes, unflinching. “I expect you to save your father’s life. Everything else is negotiable.”

The elevator doors open onto the executive floor. We’re greeted by an assistant in a suit so perfectly tailored it probably cost more than my old car.

“Mrs. Pierce-Taylor, Miss Taylor. Mr. Harrington is expecting you.”

We follow her down a corridor lined with abstract art that probably costs more than my entire education.

My phone vibrates in my clutch with a text from the hospital: Patient stable. Asking for you.

I close my eyes, just for a second, letting the relief steady me. Dad’s awake. He’s okay. For now.

When I open my eyes, we’re standing in front of a massive door—dark wood, frosted glass.

The assistant knocks once, then opens it without waiting. “Mrs. Pierce-Taylor and Miss Taylor, sir.”