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──── ' harold jenkins, our little superstar '──── [CH. XXVIII] ✦ ˚
" i'm not delicate, five. "
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THE MIRROR GLEAMED AND SPARKLED as it presented a reflection of a goddess, a woman anybody would die for. Harsh, pure white illumination hit the surface relentlessly. Deriving from the lights that stretch throughout the blueprint of the dressing room, its sprawling size could be comparable to a granny flat. A wardrobe that presented garments of any kind, from silky, flattering tops to humongous ball gowns worth millions. It was any celebrity's wet dream, to experience this kind of luxury at their fingertips.
Ophira stood before this mirror. Hands interlocked in front of themselves as they eyed the hired women who continuously bustled around them. They had been experimented upon with brushes, powder and combs for what seemed to be hours now, and only now the stylists were prone to show signs of stopping. Occasions like these were a test on Ophira's minimal patience, being warned to behave whilst the stylers worked their magic. It seemed ironic. Performing such desperate measures for a girl who was already the epitome of perfection. Knowing damn well their endless attempts to enhance that perfection would be in vain.
A set of heeled footsteps approached the room, prominent over the silence of the women standing around Ophira — who was feeling more claustrophobic by the minute. Grace, who was dressed in a similarly neat and prestigious garment, stood in the doorway.
