I’d never heard of myself talked about in such a way.
“Too bad she doesn’t have violet eyes. It would’ve been perfect.” Gen shrugged. “Oh well. What do we think then? The Maggie Pollitt?”
“Absolutely,” Petra agreed. “She’ll make an entrance.”
I thought about what Julia and Tiffany had been talking about and the air of mystery surrounding The Mansion party.
Genevieve gave me a lingering look and then turned to Petra. “Why don’t you get the dress?”
Petra nodded and left the room.
Genevieve faced me once she was sure we were alone. “You’re nervous.”
“Uh. Little bit,” I said.
“Why?” Her gaze shrewdly narrowed. “What did Tiffany say?”
“Nothing.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“No, really.” I bit my lip, not wanting to throw Julia and Tiffany under the bus, but damn it all, I was still curious. “She was vague and cryptic, and said nothing specific, only that the party is always a good time.”
“You want to know what you’re walking into,” she stated. “I was going to tell you tomorrow right before the event. I didn’t want you to have too much time to overthink things. But I guess you’ll overthink this no matter what.”
She gestured to the white L-shaped couch. I took a seat.
“Just like there are different keys for the girls, there are different rooms in The Mansion. Each of them caters to different tastes. Some are tamer than the others.”
“Tamer,” I repeated. “Like one room is a sex dungeon or something?”
She inclined her head in affirmation.
I swallowed. What level of debauchery was I walking into?
“Like I said, you have no reason to be nervous. You will be wearing a rose gold key. Our clients know what that means. Should you wish to explore and…observe…you’re welcome to, but it’s not mandatory. I need to reiterate here that you will not be forced to do anything you don’t want to do.”
Petra chose that moment to return with the most gorgeous dress I’d ever seen. It looked exactly like the dress Elizabeth Taylor had worn in the movie Cat on a Hot Tin Roof, except it was silver instead of white. It was a chiffon, knee-length cocktail dress with a low neckline, cinched at the waist.
I reached my hand out to touch the fabric. “It’s incredible. Are you sure—I’m afraid I won’t do it justice?”
“Try it on,” Petra said.
I needed both their help to slip the dress over my head. I stood in front of the mirror, and even without my hair styled to match the dress and still barefoot, I couldn’t help but love what I saw.
I felt like I’d been transported to a different era. Back to a time when women were encouraged to be beautiful and feminine; where dressing well wasn’t seen as anything except a way to compliment the wearer and fit in with societal expectations. A time when women wanted to be wanted.
I clasped the rose gold key pendant around my neck, and it rested against my skin. It felt like it belonged there.
“Oh,” I said, coming to understand why The Fifteenth Floor was different.
“I never get tired of seeing a girl try on one of our dresses for the first time,” Petra said with a knowing chuckle. “It’s always incredible watching their transformation.”
Genevieve pushed against my hip with her hand to get me to turn. “I don’t even think we need to take it in.”
“No, it’s perfect,” Petra said. “I brought the crystal slippers.” She picked up a shoebox, pushed back the tissue paper, and pulled out a ballet slipper garnished with tiny crystals.
“I guess they’ll work,” Genevieve said, a frown marring her face. “I would’ve liked for her to wear a heel of some sort.”
“I think these work better.”
“You’re the stylist,” Gen said.
Petra knelt in front of me and helped me step into the ballet flats. They were comfortable, yet oddly heavy due to the crystal beadwork.
“I think the shoes look fantastic,” Petra stated, rising. “Besides, I think they offset the vixen quality of her persona with an air of innocence.”
“No, you’re absolutely right,” Genevieve said.
I turned back to look at myself, marveling at the changes in such a short amount of time.
Vixen? No one had ever used that word to describe me.
My mother had been the one to turn heads wherever we went. I swallowed, thinking of her. She’d left Italy, pregnant, and on the run to protect me. She’d been seventeen and she’d done what she had to do. I was twenty-five. I could do this.
I could be Eden.
Chapter Eight
After I changed into my street clothes, Genevieve told me