Cecilia’s pov
I watched Tang carry Yvonne down the stairs, her silk robe trailing behind her like she was a fairy-tale princess being rescued.
She kept "accidentally" brushing her fingers against his shoulder.
I definitely noticed.
The east sitting room didn’t look anything like it did last winter.The minimalist white couches from her holiday party were gone.
Now it looked like a private boutique: full-length mirrors, a curtained-off changing area, and mannequins modeling evening gowns straight off a runway.
I sank into the velvet sofa while Tang gently placed Yvonne next to me.
Mission complete, he claimed a corner chair, popped in his earbuds, and vanished into whatever game had his attention today.
Ever the professional. Always present, never in the way.
Yvonne leaned in, her voice low and smug.
"Tang carried me all that way without breaking a sweat. Strong arms, excellent stamina. You noticed, right?"
I gave her a look. The kind that said: I know exactly what you’re doing.
She smiled, all wide-eyed innocence, and batted her lashes like a B-movie starlet.
"I’m just making an observation," she added sweetly.
I didn’t buy it for a second, but I let it go.
Just then, I heard footsteps coming down the hallway.
The butler reappeared, flanked by what could only be described as a full-on fashion entourage.
At the front was a slender man in a blush-pink button-down, skin-tight designer jeans, and a scarf that probably cost more than three months of my salary.
His bleached-blond hair was styled in perfect chaos, and his tortoiseshell glasses clung to the tip of his nose like they were hanging on for dear life.
George had arrived, complete with four assistants and three rolling racks of clothes.
The second he saw Yvonne lounging in her robe, he gasped like she’d just stepped out of a Vogue editorial.
"Oh. My. GOD! Yvonne, darling! Your skin is illegal. No way that’s natural. You’re glowing. You look sixteen. I hate you. I hate everything. "
His compliments came fast and loud, like confetti cannons on New Year’s Eve.
Yvonne soaked it up like a cat in a sunbeam.
"You’re ridiculous," she said, grinning. "Keep going."
After five full minutes of high-volume praise that made me want to stuff cotton in my ears, they finally turned to the actual clothes.
One of his assistants had a razor-sharp bob and a face that could win a staring contest with a mannequin.
She started presenting each piece like it belonged in a glass case at the Met.
"This collection is inspired by Mediterranean sunsets and coastal elegance," she said, holding up a flowing coral gown. "Note the asymmetrical hem and hand-beaded bodice."
Yvonne leaned closer, eyes sparkling like she’d just spotted dessert on a diet.
"We’re trying everything," she whispered, already reaching for my hand. "No complaints."
She picked a bold red dress with cutouts in all the dramatic places.
I went for a sapphire blue jumpsuit that didn’t scream "look at me."
As I walked toward the changing area, one of the female assistants tried to follow me in.
Before I could say anything, Tang stepped between us like a wall. His shoulders squared, his face hard.
"You’re not going in," he said, voice flat and final.
The woman blinked, caught off guard. "I... sorry?"
I immediately understood. Strange person, enclosed space, limited visibility. Classic bodyguard reflex.
I reached for the outfit in her hands.
"I’ve got it," I said, calm but firm. "No help needed."
When I stepped out in the jumpsuit, Yvonne was already spinning in her red dress like she was auditioning for a perfume commercial.
George gasped like he’d seen the second coming.
We tried on a few more looks, but after the fifth outfit, I felt the first signs of fatigue creeping in.
"I think I’m done," I said, heading back to the sofa.
Just then, the same assistant reappeared, holding up a deep green dress like it was a winning lottery ticket.
"Miss Cecilia," she said brightly, "this would look amazing on you. The color’s perfect for your skin tone."
I paused. The dress was beautiful. Rich forest green, a soft shimmer, and an elegant neckline.
"It’s a nice piece," I said. "The details are lovely."
She smiled wider. "Right? I thought of you the moment I pulled it from the rack. It practically called your name."
My gaze shifted slowly from the dress to her face. The compliment didn’t sit right.
A chill crept into my gut, quiet but sharp.
"That’s sweet," I said casually. "But I’m not the one shopping today—Yvonne is."
Her smile stalled, like a buffering screen stuck at 99%.
George caught the shift in the air and gave her a quick side-eye, the kind that said she’d gone too far.
Yvonne emerged just then in a white gown that flowed like smoke. Her gaze landed on the green dress.
"Oh, that one’s stunning," she said, reaching out.
I caught her wrist before she could touch it. "Yvonne, I’m wiped. Aren’t you tired too? Let’s take five."
Her eyes flicked to my face. We both understood, without saying a word.
She pouted playfully. "But we’ve barely touched the racks. You’re such a lightweight."
I turned to the assistant, giving her a slow once-over.
"You have a good figure," I said with a smile that didn’t quite reach my eyes. "Why don’t you try it on for us?"
Yvonne grinned. "Genius idea."
The assistant took a step back. "Oh, no, I couldn’t. It wouldn’t look right on me."
"Nonsense," Yvonne replied, her voice sweet but with a blade underneath. "If we say it’ll look good, then it will."
She turned to George. "You don’t mind if your staff helps out a little, do you?"