This Crazy Rich Boy

"Your mission, if you choose to accept it, is to sally forth and conquer and totally, totally slay."

Lopez the butler didn't actually say it, but Claire imagines him to have, like what they do in 'Mission Impossible' movies. Lopez's demeanor is ultra-serious, as though they're going to perform heart surgery.

On the other hand, the chauffeur doesn't say a thing. If anything, he's efficient almost to a fault. He always looks ahead, taking really good care of every turn in the road. Sometimes, Claire catches him glancing on the rearview mirror.

"We're making a stop at a house to prepare you."

"House? Whose house?"

"Balenciaga," Lopez says, as the car stops in front of a luxury fashion shop on the city's high street.

Claire gingerly steps out of the Bentley, gawking at the gilded, glittery store in front of her. "Balenciaga lives here? But this is a store. Is he crazy, too?"

If Lopez were amused, you won't know it; he always maintains that deadpan expression, as though he's so utterly beyond the follies of this world and of individuals. "Balenciaga is a house of fashion, Miss Monteverde. Master Gabriel says to dress you up a highly important social function."

Fear clutches Claire's throat. Highly important social function? A million questions instantly run through her head, foremost of which is: what is she gonna do at a highly important social function? She's not socialite material, for pete's sakes! She didn't even know what to do at a beer-drenched college party, what more at a high-society dressy party? What is Gabriel Tan thinking?

"This way, Madam," Lopez says, ushering her into the store. They are greeted by an overly enthusiastic matron with a heavy European accent. "You must be Claire," she greets, giving her a highly fashionable air kiss. "Ohhh, denim on denim. Horrendous!" The matron grins. "But not completely hopeless. Maybe let's put some dead animal on you. Or maybe lace. Leather and lace, the whole thing."

Claire looks at Lopez the butler, who clears his throat. "You already know the purpose of this visit, Madam Estrella. If possible, may we stop beating around the bush and choose the best outfit for tonight's event."

Madam Estrella makes a show of how Lopez has offended her. "My, oh my! Always straight as a darned arrow, Lopez the Butler! Not even a second to waste!" Then to Claire. "I admit, Claire, that you really need some work. But give me an hour and I promise you, you will look so damn fab!"

An hour, Claire thinks. Why an hour? How does choosing what to wear take so long? "Can I choose what to wear, Madam?"

Madam Estrella looks at her as though a ċȯċkroach has slipped out of her mouth. "No, my dahling! From the looks of you, you don't strike me as a woman who knows what she's doing! Let me make the fashion decisions here."

Madam Estrella leads her by the arm. They pass by a few ladies who look like they're going to the same haute couture ball. Claire's eyes almost pop out with everything she's seeing. It feels so heady, this place. The scent of everything, how the light touches the corners, the fabric of the dresses, how rich they feel in her clammy hands. What is she doing in a place like this?

In a corner, Lopez stands patiently, his eyes fixed on the vanishing point in front of him, but she knows Lopez is fully aware of even the smallest thing that is happening in the store.

Madam Estrella disappears into a side room. It takes her maybe 10 minutes before she reappears, a number of dresses in both her arms, her face shining with excitement.

"Now, try these on," she mutters, her mouth so close to Claire's ear. "Let's see if he doesn't fall head over heels over you when she sees you tonight."

Who's he? Claire is momentarily confused. She's not dressing up for a date. This is all work, and she's just the reluctant personal ȧssistant dragged from her bed to attend to some shady thing her boss has set for her.

Inside the fitting room, three serious, unsmiling girls deftly run their hands on her. She's aghast when they ask her to take her clothes off. "What, here?" One girl nods her head solemnly. Claire looks around. These people are serious. Dead serious. Are they going to harvest my organs? Reluctantly, Claire removes articles of clothing one by one. When she's down to her undėrwėȧr, one of the girls starts working. They put one dress on her so carefully, as though the dress is made of gossamer silk. When they're done, they rolled a life-size mirror in front of her. For a split second, she didn't recognize the woman in the reflection. Oh my God!

"You're gorgeous, dahling!" Madam Estrella gushes. "You are absolutely fantastic! You look like a different person!"

Claire is speechless, staring at her reflection, her heart pounding in her ċhėst. She's beautiful, she already knew that, but before this moment, this magical moment, she never knew what a bombshell she actually is. A true femme fatale. Claire Monteverde. Look at that. All her curves so subtly accentuated. The curve of her neck, her beautiful, flawless arms, the way she stands on those Balenciaga pumps. Where have you been all my life, woman?

When she walks out of the fitting room, even Lopez's face lights up upon seeing her. "Oh, my God! Err, I mean, you look lovely, Madam Claire."

"Thank you," Claire manages to say. "So where do we go next?"

"To the Palace," Lopez says, and quite uncharacteristically, follows it with, "And we have to be there before all those bitches chew his head off."