As Long As You Love Me

3 ~ Questions, Makeup, & Transformations

☼ mitchie sky ☼

I find myself in Demetria Rosewood's massive hotel suite in uptown Maine. 

I feel so out of place here in my mud-covered clothes and my sweaty face. My hair is tangled up and looks like a bird's nest and I'm still panting from the chase. 

I can't believe I threw a rock at Jonathan Tate. 

I peer around myself in wonder. I feel like some kind of maidservant in a castle. This suite has everything. The carpets are lavender and plus, the room is cavernously big, and there's a pretty crystal chandelier hanging from the ceiling. 

I cross my legs awkwardly, trying to appear a bit more professional. 

Demetria's friend Luci is sprawled across the leather couch, looking like a Greek goddess as she snacks on low-fat banana chips. I look at her clothes and instantly know she's sporting a Gucci off-shoulder dress with leggings and Kate Hilton kitten heels. 

And here I am, wearing Kmart. 

"Would you like a Piña Colada?" Demetria chirps from the gigantic kitchen. "I get them fresh everyday." 

"Um...no, thank you," I croak. 

Demetria shrugs, brushing some of her beach-blond hair over her shoulder. She's dip-dyed it a neon purple. It looks fabulous, and I can't help feeling jealous as I sullenly examine my frayed split ends. 

Demetria saunters over to where I am, holding a glass of what looks like champagne. She's entirely flawless, I realize, with that tall frame and luscious hair...but then I really look. 

Underneath the whole façade of pure perfection, I can see a broken girl. Struggling, even. I stare at her face. Her skin is taut and stretched thinly over her sharp cheekbones, and her made-up eyes look haggard. 

Demetria's done a lot to herself. I'd even heard some rumors about her going into rehab. She's abused her body and...

"What are you staring at?" she demands in her crisp accent. 

I shake my head and look down at my feet. 

"Okay, let's get down to it," Demetria suggests, taking a seat on the soft couch and crossing her tanned, waxed legs over each other. As she does so, I catch a glimpse of an infinity sign tattoo on her left thigh and balk. "You hate your life. I hate mine. You look like me. I look like you. Correct?" 

I examine her features, so scarily similar to mine, and bob my head. "Yes." 

"And you're willing to give up your entire life..." Demetria accompanies this statement with a dramatic swish of her perfect hand. "For a month, to be me." 

I nod again, trying not to appear like a bobblehead toy. "Yes. Definetely."