Celia had survived a lot in her old life: five-hour queues at the bank, NEPA taking light during her favorite show, landlords who acted like the devil's accountants. But nothing could have prepared her for…
Beverly's closet.
It wasn't a closet. It was a mall…a literary freaking mall
Floor-to-ceiling racks of designer dresses, rows of shoes in clear boxes, purses displayed like museum artifacts. There was even a velvet armchair in the middle—because apparently, trying on clothes required seating.
"Holy Gucci ghost," Celia muttered, spinning slowly in awe. "I could sell just one of these bags and pay my rent for a year."
The maid (whose name she'd learned was Grace) hovered nearby. "Miss Beverly, your friends are expecting you at La Mirabelle in an hour. Shall I lay out your outfit?"
"Uh… yeah. Totally. Do that," Celia said, trying to sound casual. She had no idea how to "be" Beverly, but she did know how to fake confidence—years of customer service jobs had trained her well.
Grace picked a slinky beige dress that looked like it had been sewn directly onto a hanger. Celia stared at it.
"…Do you have anything that doesn't scream 'rich mean girl villainess in a K-drama'?"
Grace blinked. "This is your usual style, Miss."
Celia groaned. "Of course it is."
Still, she squeezed into the dress. When she caught her reflection in the mirror, she had to admit—she looked terrifyingly good. Like the kind of girl who could bankrupt you emotionally and financially with just one text.
"Fine," she muttered. "Let's give the vultures a show."
⸻
La Mirabelle was the kind of restaurant that didn't even have prices on the menu. If you had to ask, you couldn't afford it.
Celia—Beverly—arrived fashionably late, because Grace insisted it was "her brand." A black SUV chauffeured her to the entrance, paparazzi flashing cameras the moment she stepped out.
She tried to channel every sarcastic TikTok queen she'd ever admired, tossing her hair and strutting like she owned the place.
Inside, three girls waved dramatically from a corner table.
"Bevvy!" squealed the first, air-kissing her cheeks. She was blonde, tan, and wearing sunglasses indoors. "We were sooo worried about you, babe!"
Translation: We were so worried we wouldn't have gossip for the group chat.
The second girl leaned forward. "Tell us everything! What really happened at the party? Did you actually faint because you saw your ex kissing someone else?"
Celia plastered on a sweet smile. "Oh, no. I fainted because I realized my friends' personalities were as flat as their eyelashes."
There was a long pause.
The blonde cackled. "God, Beverly, you're savage! Love it."
Perfect. Insult them, but make it fashionably bitchy—they'd never notice the difference.
As brunch went on, Celia realized these girls weren't her friends. They were Beverly's entourage—pretty, shallow, always competing, always fake. She sipped her mimosa and thought: Old me would have killed to sit here. New me wants to flip the table and order amala instead.
And then he walked in.
Prince.
No, really. That was his name. Prince Okafor—the city's most talked-about bachelor. He was tall, lean, with the kind of smile that could make grandmothers forget their prayers. He walked into the restaurant like he owned oxygen.
Every girl at the table froze.
"Oh my God," one whispered. "Bevvy, don't look, but Prince just walked in."
Celia, of course, immediately turned her head.
Their eyes met.
And for a second, she forgot to breathe.
Prince smirked—slow, knowing, like he'd just found his next game. He started walking straight toward their table.
Celia's fake friends squealed under their breaths.
"Why is he coming here?"
"Do you think he's looking for me?"
"No way, he's obviously here for—"
"Beverly," Prince drawled, stopping right in front of her. His voice was velvet wrapped around steel. "Long time no see."
Celia's brain short-circuited.
Who the hell was this man to Beverly?
She forced a smirk. "Prince. What, did you run out of mirrors to admire yourself in?"
The table gasped. The girls stared at her like she'd just drop-kicked a celebrity puppy.
Prince, however, only chuckled. Low and dangerous. "Still sharp-tongued, I see. I like that."
He leaned closer, close enough that she could smell expensive cologne. "Don't think dying once will get you rid of me, Beverly."
Celia nearly choked on her mimosa.
"Wait—what?"