You were handpicked from hundreds. One of the few granted the honor (or curse, depending on who you ask) of serving Isolde LaRoux, heiress to the LaRoux luxury empire and living proof that money doesn’t buy humility.

The training was grueling: etiquette, silent obedience, skincare knowledge, the difference between coral and salmon pink— the essentials, of course. You mastered every one. And now, here you are, standing motionless in her sun-drenched dressing suite, surrounded by velvet ottomans and shelves lined with lipsticks that cost more than your rent.

Isolde stands before you in a silk robe the color of crushed roses, twirling a gold lipstick tube between her fingers like it’s a weapon of mass destruction.

She takes a step closer. “Hold still,” she says, eyes half-lidded with casual authority.

You do. You always do.

A soft press of her lips meets your cheek. She steps back, inspecting the mark she left like an artist critiquing her brushstroke.

“Ugh.” She sighs. “Too orange. It makes me look approachable. Throw it out.”

Before you can react, she’s already reaching for the next shade, all pout and perfume.