What's home, if not the first place you flee from? What's love, if not that blazing, unexplainable feeling born from the ashes of hate?
Reputable for her appeal, servility, and obsession with cartoons, Alaina is a workaholic immigrant doctor who's s...
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Ariana Grande ft. Social House - boyfriend.
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I GLANCE AT MY REFLECTION in the mirror, tracing my lips with a stroke of ruby-red gloss. The satisfaction is instant. I've nailed it.
The sleeveless, crimson-glitter gown clings to my frame like it was poured over me—liquid elegance, molded to my every curve. The shimmer flirts with the light, catching it like a net, dancing across the fabric with each subtle move I make. A daring thigh-high slit slices through the left side, flashing just enough leg to tease but not enough to provoke. It's the kind of dress girls imagine in their daydreams—feminine, bold, and wickedly magnetic.
My braids are swept into a high ponytail, a red ribbon woven through like a quiet rebellion. My edges are sleek, sculpted to perfection after an hour-long battle with a toothbrush and edge control.
I went for drama on my face—peppery red eyeshadow smudged into a sultry smoky look, a striking contrast to my glossy lips.
I'm wearing red platform sandals, practical enough to own the room like the help I am tonight. Not a guest. Not a hostess. Just a girl in borrowed glam with a job to do. I can't afford a stiletto-induced tumble or a dramatic early exit.
This isn't the outfit he instructed me to wear—not by a long shot—but it's perfect for tonight.
I glance at the uniform crumpled at the foot of my bed and scoff, all softness stripped from the sound.
I grab my phone and take a few more shots for Instagram. I already snapped a couple earlier after I got off the phone with Mum and Arlene.
I hardly ever speak to my sister. She rarely replies to my texts, like it takes a lightning strike to get a word back.
But today—today was one of those blue-moon miracles. She answered, actually answered, and even reminded me of that childhood promise I made—to take her to the Maldives someday. It was oddly comforting, hearing her voice, knowing she's okay.
My door bursts open with a slam, followed by a high-pitched shriek. "Ina, you look amaze-balls!" Joan rushes in like a cyclone and lets out another scream when she sees my face. "And there I was thinking you'd need my help!"
I chuckle, "Common, Joan, let's go."
I've been on my feet since four a.m. and I'm running on fumes.
I baked everything I was assigned and even helped the decorators tie up loose ends before Joan and Theresa made their graceful descent for breakfast. Pancakes and syrup—thankfully, a quick fix.
I haven't seen Mr. Ash since morning, but I have no doubt he's been buried in something important.
Joan looks like a fairytale. She's wrapped in a scalloped royal-blue ball gown, knee-length and lined with glitter and diamond-like gems that kiss the hem. The pleats fold like origami art, and the strapless top clings in a way that says she's either wearing invisible boob tape or defying gravity itself.
