"Good day, miss. Welcome to the Grand Eclipse. How can I assist?"
"I'd like to book the penthouse, please. For tonight." Seraphina slid her personal card across—black and sleek, linked to her hidden fortune.
Mia's eyes widened slightly as she swiped it.
"Of course. It's available. Our penthouse is luxurious—private terrace, full amenities.
Will you be joining the gala in the ballroom this evening?
It's an exclusive event for industry folks—movies, music, you name it."
"Yes, actually. Could you arrange a stylist? Makeup, dress—the works. Something fitting for the party."
Mia nodded enthusiastically. "Absolutely! We have Clara on staff; she's a genius. Worked with top celebrities. I'll call her up. Any style in mind?"
"Elegant, bold. Surprise me, but make it memorable."
"Done. Here's your key card. Elevator to the top. Clara will be up in fifteen minutes."
"Thank you, Mia." Seraphina took the card and headed to the elevators, feeling eyes follow her.
The penthouse was a dream—a vast space with plush carpets, a massive bed, and windows overlooking the city.
She set her bag down and paced, glancing at the mysterious message again.
[Who sent this? And why me?]
A knock came. "Miss? It's Clara, the stylist."
"Come in."
Clara was a whirlwind of energy, in her forties with vibrant purple streaks in her hair and arms full of garment bags and makeup kits.
Her personality was lively, chatty, with a sharp eye for detail.
"Oh, honey, look at you! That red hair is fire. And those eyes—big and blue, like sapphires.
We're gonna make you shine."
Seraphina smiled. "Thanks. I need something for the gala. Elegant but with edge."
Clara unpacked, humming. "Got it. Let's start with makeup. Sit here."
As Clara worked, they talked. "So, what's your story? You look like you belong on a red carpet."
"Just starting fresh," Seraphina said vaguely.
[Can't reveal too much yet.]
Clara applied foundation, then smoky shadow to highlight her eyes, making them pop even more. "Your skin is flawless. Now, lips—bold red to match the hair?"
"Yes."
Nails next: long, manicured to a sharp point, painted deep crimson with subtle glitter. "Dangerous and sexy," Clara winked.
Hair: She curled the waves looser, adding volume, pinning snowflake clips that sparkled like diamonds. "Keeps the winter queen vibe."
The dress: A deep sapphire blue, short and fitted, ending mid-thigh with a subtle slit for movement.
Off-the-shoulder, hugging her curves, the fabric shimmering under light. "Short enough to tease, long enough to intrigue," Clara said.
Shoes: Strappy black heels, four inches, with crystal accents. "Comfortable but killer."
Seraphina twirled in the mirror.
The dress accentuated her figure—slim waist, full bust—her red hair cascading over bare shoulders. Nails gleamed, shoes clicked elegantly.
[Perfect. Commanding yet inviting.]
"You're a vision," Clara gushed. "Knock 'em dead."
As evening fell, Seraphina descended to the ballroom.
The doors opened to opulence: crystal lights, orchestral music, guests in finery mingling.
Conversations hushed as she entered; heads turned, eyes widened.
"Stunning," someone whispered.
She ignored the stares, walking straight to the bar, her heels echoing.
The bartender, a handsome man named Alex with a flirtatious grin, leaned in. "What can I get you, beautiful?"
"A martini, dry," she said, her voice smooth.
"Coming up." He mixed it quickly, sliding it over. "On the house. You look like you own the place."
She sipped, the cool liquid calming her nerves.
[Deep breaths. This is my night.]
A woman at the end of the bar caught her eye—Callista Thorne, elegant in a tailored black suit, dark hair pulled back, but her shoulders tense, fingers drumming.
Callista looked stressed, sipping whiskey neat.
[She seems familiar. From the picture? No... but interesting.]
Seraphina moved closer. "Rough night?"
Callista glanced up, her green eyes sharp but weary.
She was powerful, mid-twenties, with a no-nonsense personality—direct, ambitious, but underneath, vulnerable.
"You could say that. Family pressures are piling up. You?"
"Same. Just escaped mine." Seraphina sat, her short dress riding up slightly.
Callista chuckled dryly. "Escaped? Sounds dramatic."
"Oh, it was. Slapped my stepsisters and walked out. They thought I was weak."
Callista raised an eyebrow. "Impressive. I'm Callista. And you?"
"Seraphina."
They talked—family first. "My parents won't stop nagging about marriage," Callista said.
"And I've got a nephew and niece to care for. Six-year-olds, full of energy. Plus the business empire. It's exhausting."
Seraphina nodded. "Stepsisters are scheming climbers in the industry. Stepmother's a tyrant. I dream of writing scripts, making stars, but they sabotage everything."
Chemistry sparked—shared glances, laughs. Callista's stress eased; Seraphina's nerves melted.
Hours later, Callista leaned in. "Want to get out of here? My suite."
"Yes."