Sweet Temptation: A Trick-Or-Treat Collaboration

My jaw clenches, unable to control my own frustration with something that could have easily been avoided. A long-winded breath escapes my lips as I continue to wait for a response.

This will be the last time I’ll work with this pathetic excuse for a designer. The bitch offered the dress I was supposed to be wearing to another A-lister celebrity. She has some sort of distaste or issue with me. Bets are it has something to do with her husband trying to get his hands on me at the Annual Met Gala last year. This act is of pure vengeance, but she is messing with the wrong person. Perhaps she doesn’t realize how easily I can destroy her career. I’ve done it before, and I am not afraid to do it again.

“Scarlett, honey,” Valentino pleads, forcing a smile to keep the energy between us calm. “It’s not about finding something, it’s about the perfect dress. The spotlight is all yours tonight, darling. God forbid you walk out in something I wouldn’t wipe my ass with!”

Everyone in the room snickers but me. Valentino isn’t helping, throwing childish jokes around while I’m standing here, without a dress, for tonight’s party.

To anyone else, this wouldn’t be such a dilemma.

But Hollywood

isn’t so forgiving.

You fuck up—you pay the price.

Valentino excuses himself, demanding his assistants follow him to the rack near the large bay window.

There are four black bags hanging neatly on the clothing rack. Jemima, Valentino’s assistant, pulls the zipper down on bag number one. A loud gasp escapes his dramatic mouth, followed by his feeble attempt at pretending to faint from disgust. This happens another three times before I hear, “Es bonito.”

There’s a flutter of excitement, some chatter, and a few claps. Valentino carries the dress over to me, laying it flat in my arms, then signing the cross as he silently mumbles some prayer about this dress being the one.

Stepping off the small podium, with the dress in my hands, I walk into my wardrobe for privacy.

This room is my favorite place in the entire house and just as large as my bedroom. The walls are painted in a beautiful shade of white called Chantilly Lace. I love it so much I even had my bedroom painted in the same color.

Surrounding the walls are white, custom-built shelves, each fitted with warm downlights. The left-hand wall houses all my clothes—ballgowns, cocktail dresses, designer everything down to my undergarments. On the right-hand side is my pride and joy—the shoe wall. The last time Valentino counted, there were four-hundred and forty-seven pairs of shoes. Most of them have been given to me by labels in exchange for promotion, and the rest are from my obsession with shoe shopping.

In the middle of the room, sitting over the marble floors, is a long, custom-made table made from an expensive dark oak. It showcases my jewelry, which is organized behind a glass display, including diamonds and pearls. Expensive and too many to count.

There are a few armchairs in the room, all part of the Versailles-inspired theme, which cost an absolute fortune. Money well spent as far as I’m concerned. And since I have plenty of it, I barely give it a second thought.

Carefully, I place the hanger on the hook, removing the ugly black dress and tossing it to the floor. Sliding the dress off the hanger, I admire the ivory fabric with exquisite beading and embroidered with Swarovski Crystals.

After stepping in, I slide the dress slowly from my feet, pulling it toward my shoulders, careful not to damage any beading while relishing in the soft silk which lines the inside. The rear of the dress dips down to the edge of my lower back, so I quickly remove my bra and zip up to just above my waistline.

The second it’s on, a zap of electricity shatters through me.

I yelp, the static of the fabric tarnishing this almost perfect moment.

It takes a few moments, and several deep breaths, to calm my pounding chest. The aftershock still paralyzing my thoughts, never having experienced such a reaction to a garment.

Slowly walking back to the bedroom, everyone’s holding their breaths, hands on chest. Valentino is the first to lay his eyes on me, instantly fanning his face until Jemima hands him a silk handkerchief. Jemima beams, nodding in approval, as do my makeup and hair team—Jon, Gabriel, and Maurice.

Valentino reaches his hands out for me, my own lying on his perfectly manicured hands. He clutches on tight, mumbling something in Spanish, but I know it’s good since he does so with a dignified smile.

“Simplemente perfecto,” he boasts, wiping a tear away.

“It’s slightly loose at my waist,” I complain.

“Why have you stopped eating, darling? You’re becoming my alteration nightmare. It’s too late to call Camila, she left for Paris this morning. I’ll have to call Mama.”

Great. I’ve never met Valentino’s Mama but can only imagine she’s just as extravagant as him. After all, she gave birth to this drama beast in front of me.

With a room full of people, I don’t want to tell him my appetite had dwindled to barely anything after last week’s revelation. The more I thought about it, the more my stomach ached in pain, and my heart followed suit.

Breathe.

He’s not yours.