"What the hell?"
For a second, she just stared, mouth slightly parted. Her eyes darted from the luxurious car behind him to his face, as if trying to match the image with reality. Even her frustration took a backseat.
Rex offered a sheepish grin, scratching the back of his head. "Hey. I made it. Barely."
Seraphina blinked again, then narrowed her eyes. "You... you ca out of that car?"
Rex shrugged innocently. "Technically, yes."
She folded her arms, looking him up and down like she was trying to figure out if she was being pranked. "You better start explaining before my brain files for a system crash."
"Let guess... you stole that car?"
"No, it just sort of... happened to ."
"Uh-huh," she teased, folding her arms. "That’s a Regalia Ravelle. Even billionaires have to wait a year to get one. And it’s not just an ordinary Regalia, it’s Majesta One, their latest model. Do you know how many people I’ve seen cry over waiting lists for that car? There are, like, ten of them in the world. And sohow, it ’just happened’ to you?"
He shrugged. "It kind of... found ."
"Oh, sure. Just fell out of the sky, landed in your lap. Happens to everyone."
Rex gave a noncommittal grin. "You’d be surprised."
"Crazy morning," Rex said, scratching his head. "Long story."
She studied him for a mont, then chuckled. "Well, good. You look rich enough to tolerate what cos next. Co on. We’re already late."
She grabbed his wrist and dragged him inside. SO, in the stunned eyes of everyone they entered the hotel.Rex barely had ti to admire the grand chandeliers, the marble floors, or the giant indoor fountain shaped like a phoenix rising from flas before they were turning down a private hallway.
"Where are we going?"
"To get you presentable," she replied cryptically.
She opened a double door at the end of the corridor and swept her arm dramatically. "Welco to prep."
Rex stepped in and imdiately stopped.
It wasn’t a dressing room.
It was a battleground.
It was like walking into the backstage of a runway show. Stylists everywhere. Hair stylists. Skin experts. Tailors. Shoe consultants. Makeup artists. A literal fashion director barking orders into a headset. Tables of designer accessories lined up like weapons in an armory.
People with clipboards. Hairdryers humming. Steam rising from irons. Clothes hanging like museum pieces.
"What... what is this?" He managed to mutter, as his mouth fell open. "I thought you said a touch-up?"
"I said prep. This *is* prep."
"You dragged a whole fashion house!"
"It’s your makeover montage, you are going to a top Hollywood party, gotta make yourself presentable " Seraphina said sweetly. But he could swear that he saw a demonic glint in her eyes. It was the kind of look you’d see in a villain just before they unleashed their final form.
"Now strip."
Rex blinked, then slowly took a dramatic step back, crossing his arms tightly over his chest like a damsel in distress. "Girl, it seems you’re really obsessed with stripping ," he said, feigning horror.
"But if you really want to... we can book a room and then..." he said with a bashful expression.
Seraphina gave him a flat look, the awe she had briefly felt from his car entrance evaporating in an instant. "Ugh, you’re impossible," she muttered, mock-disgust etched across her face as she turned away. "Just get changed before I regret inviting you."
She ignored his antics and clapped her hands. "Alright, people, he’s here! You have forty minutes. Do your magic!"
A chorus of "Got it!" echoed as several stylists lunged toward Rex.
Instantly, the room shifted into high gear like a pit crew descending on a race car. Brushes, scissors, asuring tapes, and fabric swatches sprang into motion. Rex tried to take a step back, but it was too late—stylists sward him like they’d been starved for days and he was the last dessert on Earth.
Rex backed away slowly. "Seraphina... help."
She leaned against the wall, grinning.. "Oh no. You’re on your own. I warned you not to be late. This is karma."
She leaned against the wall, grinning. "Nope. I warned you not to be late. This is karma."
"Rex looked around at the swarm of stylists advancing toward him, eyes gleaming with professional fervor. He shuddered dramatically, taking a slow step back as if he’d just heard the music cue from a horror movie. "Soone... help ..." he pleaded, voice full of codic dread.
Rex tried again, louder this ti, a pair of stylists swooped in like hawks. One held up a comb like it was a weapon. Another examined his nails with horror.
"Soone help! I’m too young to be sacrificed to the fashion gods!"
He turned, tried to make a break for the door, only to be grabbed by one of the makeup artists with the strength of a wrestler and dragged back like a damsel in distress in a slasher flick. "This is torture!" he cried as he disappeared into the crowd of beauty experts."
"You can’t escape beauty, darling," she cooed.
What followed could only be described as organized chaos. Soone plucked his eyebrows, with tweezers like she was harvesting rare herbs—Rex yelped as his eyebrows were plucked within an inch of their life.
Three people ford a triangle in front of his face, passionately debating whether he had warm, cool, or neutral undertones like philosophers arguing the nature of reality. His hair was shampooed, blow-dried, and styled not once, not twice—but three tis. The second ti, the stylist clicked her tongue and declared, "No, no, this doesn’t capture his ’feral prince ets misunderstood genius’ aura. Start over!"
At one point, a sharply dressed man held up two cufflink sets—one shaped like daggers, the other like diamond roses—and argued as if world peace hinged on the decision.
Rex sat silently as a tailor hemd his pants with terrifying speed. He was pretty sure soone applied cologne behind his ears while another polished his shoes—while he was still wearing them.
He was spun, poked, pulled, adjusted, and passed around like a limited-edition handbag in a bidding war. Every few seconds, soone shouted, "We need more light!" or "Is that the final bowtie?!"
While they were busy, he attempted to escape again—tried to make a break for the door like a rom-com heroine fleeing her wedding—but he was imdiately dragged back with the gentle force of a smiling executioner. "Don’t struggle, sweetheart. You’ll smudge your toner."
"This isn’t a makeover—it’s an exorcism," Rex muttered.
But no one heard him. Or they pretended not to.
He sat, arms outstretched, legs parted, shirt halfway off—completely dazed as brushes swirled, fabrics flew, and soone shouted, "We need ergency lip balm!"
He tried to protest, but his voice was drowned out by the chaos. He just sat there, dazed, a living mannequin in a whirlwind of beauty and branding.
Finally, silence fell.
One of the senior stylists stepped back, arms crossed with a nod of imnse satisfaction. "Done," she announced like a general concluding a victorious campaign.
Everyone around her seed to snap out of their frantic pace all at once. Hairdryers stopped mid-whirl, scissors froze in the air, and soone even dropped a brush with a soft clatter. The whole room had gone still—as if soone had pressed pause on reality.
Rex blinked in confusion. "What? Why is everyone looking at like I just evolved into a rare Pokémon?"
No one answered. A few of the younger stylists even looked a little starstruck. One of them gasped, covering her mouth as her eyes sparkled.
He turned slowly toward the full-length mirror.
And froze.
(End of Chapter)
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