“I’ve now agreed to slather on this horrible purple metallic nail polish, but what more do I have to do to please you, Clara?” I ask the glowering stylist.

“It’s not purple.” She grits out her response. “It’s black with ground up purple glitter to accent it, and how can you not like it?”

“Fine, sorry. It’s not horrible, it’s fine, but I’m only wearing it, because the stylists told me that Royce picked it himself. To match is tie or something, right?”

“Yes. It. Does. Tie. Socks. And pants. Which brings us to the part where you need to pair your outfit with the proper matching footwear,” She holds out a box. “Then you’re done—er—finished.” She laughs to herself.

I glance down at these strapped, shiny torturous looking things she’s holding out for me to see, and, though I’m trying to have a better attitude, I can’t hide my grimace as I poke at them. “What are these things? Are you sure they’re even shoes?”

Clara’s entire forehead furrows. “Why are you being so disagreeable?”

“I’m not. You are.” I blink at her. “I’ve agreed to the severe gown with the slit going up the leg and almost to my waist. The same dress that has almost no front—like I’ve never seen on any dress. I’ve agreed to put it on, despite the part where it’s exposing my entire chest for the world to see. I’ve agreed to walk around in in this, even though it’s made up of all lace and netting and not much else. I’ve agreed to wearing weird, awkward, and uncomfortable flat stickers over my nipples so when it gets cold or the stupid dress rips or falls off of me, I won’t embarrass my husband. But…” I point to the shoes she’s set near my feet. “But those shoes, are not shoes. I won’t wear them.”

“Stop calling one of a kind, designer high heels—heels that are worth thirty thousand dollars, you ungrateful brat, shoes.” Clara picks up one of the offending objects and holds it high so it twinkles in the lights. “Look at these beauties. These were made by Pierre DeLune. The heels are subtle, artistic replicas of the Champagne glasses. To go with how the Champagne region has sponsored these awards. Didn’t Royce tell you about that?”

“He did.” I swallow, feeling guilty now.

“This is not a shoe, it’s modern art and you of all people should appreciate it.”

I eye the shoe again, finally making out the lines of how, the heel is, in fact, an insane looking, fused glass Champagne flute with little bubbles going up the stiletto. It’s so darn high it’s insane. It’s also very dangerous looking—like it could be a weapon because you could whack someone with this ‘work of art’ and kill them. Or, for that matter it could be a murder weapon, because if I wear these Clara will have finally won in her passive aggressive attempts to kill me.

“I do appreciate the art and the creation time involved,” I say, trying to remain calm. “I will appreciate them…in a museum where they belong. Not on my feet. Can’t you please find me other shoes,” I can’t help bud add, because now that I know that word makes her mad, I have to use it. After all, she’s the one who wouldn’t let me eat dinner for fear my stomach would ‘pop out’ so…this is only fair.

“It’s Haute Couture at its finest. And this time, my answer to you is, no! If you don’t wear them you will insult the sponsor as well as the designer. And if you do wear them you will wind up in every fashion magazine for months! You will make every TV network, and you will be reblogged on Instagram more than any other person tonight. You will also be invited to wear them on every single talk show that can book you, because despite how boring and bumbling you might be personally, people will want to take a closer look at these magnificently beautiful heels.” She gingerly places the shoe back in its silk lined box.

I try another tactic to change her mind. “Yeah, but I’m going to fall on my face wearing them. And… didn’t someone famous already do that falling-down thing at an awards ceremony? You said yourself I shouldn’t copy what other stars do.”

Clara shoots me a look. “Robin. My mother told me to say this to you. She and I have babied you like crazy. You managed to get photographed with designer shirts on backwards while on your honeymoon, and then you ran out and bought hideous, stupid looking, worse-than thrift store outfits from that flea-market place, and both times you survived the mistakes. But this is your first, red-carpet awards ceremony. Pardon my French here, but you’re the world’s real-life Cinderella, and Cinderella needs awesome-fucking-shoes and we’ve found them for you, and they’re perfect to the event. So stop whining and start thanking me for knowing what I’m doing for once. Royce needs you to step up. This is a very big deal.”

“Fine.” I sigh. “I’ll wear them. What are you planning with my hair? To shave it off?”

She shrugs. “Not shave it, but we are sending in a stylist to cut some of it. He’s French and he doesn’t speak any English, which is lucky because now if you say stupid stuff you hopefully can’t insult him. I’ve told him exactly what to do, so you won’t be, as usual, a complete embarrassment to Royce and the franchise that is Guarderobe. With your father being located, and the whole world now watching you, you need more than great tonight. You need to be glorious.”

“Glorious. Check.” I nod.

“The Champagne deal they made with the French government is huge, so you also need to look older, sophisticated, and like you actually fit in with the rest of the inner circle for once. Can you handle that? Because I need to go help dress everyone else now. I’m not going to be able to stay in here to hold your hand and feed you lollipops while your hair gets trimmed.”

I purse my lips and cross my hands over my chest, hating how she’s opened up my worst fears—that despite the progress I’ve made and the successes Royce and I have shared, I’m still not sophisticated enough to be married to Royce Devlin and represent his brand. She’s also right that I do complain a lot…and I do need to stop being such a baby.

“I’ve got this. Please. Go,” I spit out.

Clara adds, “If it helps, you could pretend it’s all a costume, because that’s what we’re going for here. Can you at least do that?” She glances at her buzzing phone. “Hair will be here in five. Make up in thirty. Don’t waste their time. See you in the hallway for last checks before you and Royce head down the elevator. Deal?”

“Yep. Okay. Deal. And thank you…Clara…for all of the hard work. I’m sorry if I haven’t appreciated you.”

She rolls her eyes at me, my compliment falling on deaf ears and she slams the door without responding. I look back at the dress giving myself a pep talk.

Costume. It’s a costume.

But after a long moment of my eyes darting between the horrible shoes, I switch to thinking: It’s a costume…a horrible hellish… vampire costume…

My only solace is found in the idea that if Royce is going to match me somehow, then he’s going to be some kind of sexy, vampire-looking-husband in his red-carpet, costume outfit, too.

Which could be…hot, because… maybe I read the books a long time ago, but I’m totally unashamed to note that I’m a die-hard Twilight fan.

If this costume brings out Royce Devlin, crossed with my secret-fan-Edward Cullen crush...then this will all be worth it.