Lies Twist The Way We Think

Chapter 21 - Aisha, the queen of fashion

"This is silly," I mutter. "I love clothes and dressing up, but this is too much."

The female stylist crosses to us. She walks lightly on her feet, like she could tiptoe across a bed of flowers without breaking a single one. "The way you dress, the way you do your hair—it's not just silly. It's not shallow. This..." She gestures to the rack behind her. "It's not just clothing. It's a message. You're not deciding what to wear. You're deciding what story you want your image to tell. Are you the ingenue, young and sweet? Do you dress to this world of wealth and wonders like you were born to it, or do you want to walk the line: the same but different, young but full of steel?"

"Why do I have to tell a story?" I ask.

"Because if you don't tell the story, someone else will tell it for you." I turn to see Nash standing in the doorway.

"You can't just come in. I could've been naked," I say and narrow my eyes.

"Well, you're not," he says. His eyes land on Aisha, who is still sorting through my clothes, and I watch something interesting happen. Nash's posture becomes less confident and he starts to rub his hands nervously. He suddenly seems to find great interest in the patterns of the floor, but his eyes continue to find her.

No fucking way, I think. When I catch his gaze, I raise both eyebrows. Before he can run away or do something stupid, I decide to take matters into my own hands. "Nash, this is Aisha, my best friend." There's a warning in those words. "Aisha, this is Nash Hawthorne."

She turns to us and greets him and I think, Of course. Of course. She radiates kindness like the sun. Aisha is a painting of loveliness.

"Nice to meet you," Nash says nervously. "I'm Nash."

"I've gathered," Aisha says with an amused smile.

"Are you going to stay in Hawthorne House for longer?"

"Depends on whether Camille will want me here when I'm done with her." She chuckles and gestures towards the clothes and Nash seems entirely frozen when he hears her laugh. When she turns back to him, he nods thoughtfully.

"Good." Then he disappears as fast as he appeared. Good? You incompetent moron. I thought you were able to talk to women.

Aisha shakes her head and looks at me. "There's three others like this?"

"Ah, yes. Grayson, Jameson and Xander."

She sits down on my bed and makes me put on the outfits with the help of the stylists. "Tell me about them."

So I do. "There's Xander, he's the youngest. Probably the best of them all," I start. "Then there's Jameson, who seems to be around Avery all day, God knows why. I don't see him very often, but he goes to school with us. He's about the same age as Avery." Aisha raises an eyebrow and I scoff. "Please."

"What about the other one?"

"Oh, yeah. There's Grayson too. He's confusing and he thinks I'm the devil reincarnated. I like to call him my significant bother when he's not around."

She snorts. "Seems like a terribly grumpy person. Anyway, we should get back to you. And we should do something about your hair."

I frown. "I like my hair."

The male stylist shakes his head. He's just returned from a break, as it seems, and his sister is trailing behind him. "Like isn't good enough."

With only a moderate amount of teeth-gnashing, I end up agreeing to get a hair cut.

The team keeps my hair long but works in layers that suit my curls. I've never known anyone who knew how to style my curls. I half expect them to suggest highlights, but they go the opposite route: they dye my already dark brown hair nearly black. They clean my eyebrows up but leave them thick. I get instructions on the finer points of an elaborate facial regimen and find myself on the receiving end of a spray tan via airbrush, but they keep my makeup minimal: eyes and lips, nothing more. Looking at myself in the mirror, I can almost believe that the girl staring back belongs in this house.

But new clothes and a haircut don't make a person. They paint a picture of someone I could be, but not who I am. But I look pretty. I can admit that, and Aisha's sincere comments make me feel even better.

Then, I find Grayson standing in my doorway. He leans against the frame and watches without commenting. "You look good," he says.

"Thank God!" I gasp dramatically. "How could I possibly continue my existence without your approval?"

Grayson rolls his eyes. "Are you ever not sarcastic?"

"Are you ever not wearing a suit?"

"If you wanted to see me naked, you could've just asked." He raises one of his perfect eyebrows and I curse him for his good comeback.

I put my hand on my heart, feigning shock. "Am I that transparent?"

Aisha turns her head from one of us to the other and laughs. "You're Grayson, I'm assuming?"

"Pleasure. And you are Aisha." He doesn't ask, he knows, in the typical Grayson-Hawthorne-way in which he knows everything.

He regains some of his professionalism. His gaze settles on me one more time. "You also don't look like someone who might have seduced an old man out of billions, so that's good."

"Really, Grayson?" Zara announces her presence with next to no fanfare and I bite back a non-child-friendly response. "No one believes that Camille seduced your grandfather."

"That's bold, coming from you," I say.

"Camille." Zara gives me a smile as cool as the winter colours she's wearing. "Might I have a word?"