Sweet Billionaire Stepbrother(13)

I’d break my neck on sky-high heels and apparently flat shoes were completely banned from being worn with evening dresses. It didn’t make sense to me, I was a practical woman. For starters, I preferred buying something that I'd wear again and I was certain there weren’t too many formal functions in my near future. Besides, who’d even know I was wearing a pair of flat and super comfy shoes under my dress?

By the time my mother announced that the next stop was her beauty therapist, I wasn’t surprised. In fact I was relieved to be able to just get away from all the constant chatter about ball gowns and what color lipstick would suit my skin tone best.

All I wanted was to just listen to meditative music while someone else pampered my face and body. Mum had booked me in for the whole enchilada: body scrub, facial and waxing. I'd never been prodded, poked and pummeled as much in my life.

It was more exhausting than any assignment I’d ever worked on.

“I'm having French polish on my nails please.” I said to the technician who was giving me a manicure and pedicure. How Mum did all of this on a regular basis was beyond me.

In my next life I wanted to be a man—all they needed to do to get ready was to have a shave, shower and get dressed. Nobody frowned if they wore comfy shoes with their tuxedos.





9: Layla


“Ah, Bella, today I turn you into a princess.” Mario said with a wink as I planted my ass in his chair. “Just leave it up to me. You will see.”

I’d survived the dress shopping and beauty therapist the day before, so how bad could hair and makeup be. Mostly I was looking forward to the massage chair that would knead the tight knots out of my back and shoulders. And the complimentary glass of sparkles.

The big night was only hours away. Mostly I couldn’t wait for it to all be over.

“Nothing radical, Mario,” I warned, scrunching my nose as the bubbles hit my nostrils. “I still want to recognize myself when I walk out of here, okay.”

Mario looked at me with a wounded look on his round face. “What . . . you don’t trust me, Bella? That hurts my feelings, you know. Your Mama, is she not beautiful? All my work.” He pushed his chest out, pride beaming on his face.

“Yes, she’s gorgeous and you make her look amazing. But I don’t want that kind of look. I don’t want—”

“To look beautiful? You don’t want every man in the room wishing you were his?”

“Oh God, no!” I said, horror lacing my voice. “I don’t want anyone looking at me.”

That’s a lie. Only one man. He can look all he wants.

Only thing was, he’d look, but he wouldn’t see me. He’d see his best friend, his confidant. A girl, not a woman.

“There is a man you want to notice you?” Mario asked, his brown eyes soft and warm.

“No . . . um, y . . . yes.” Mario could see I was lying, I saw it in his eyes. I lowered my gaze to the floor. “But he won’t see me like I want him too.”

Mario placed his finger under my chin and raised my face. “Bella, every woman is beautiful. And through the eyes of love, you will be the most beautiful woman on the planet to some lucky bastard. Let me show you how to make the best of what nature gave you. Nothing crazy, okay? I want you to feel confident in your own skin.” He smiled at me. “Trust me, okay?” He squeezed my chin like one would that of a child, imploring me to take his word. His smile was so genuine, so caring, that I couldn’t help myself.

I nodded as a small smile crept over my face.

“Okay.” I took in a big gulp of air. “I trust you.”

Holy hell. What was I doing?

“You won’t be sorry. And your man—he won’t be able to take his eyes off you. I promise.”

That was a big promise to make. I wasn’t sure he could keep his end of the bargain, but what the hell . . . I had nothing to lose really.

“Can you trust me enough to not look in the mirror until we are finished with you?” Mario coaxed.

My eyes widened. He was kidding, right? Was I on some kind of TV show I didn’t know about? Was he hiding cameras behind those thick glass windows? My suspicions rose when out of the blue a very gay and gorgeous young man walked up to me with various makeup brushes in his hands. Mario introduced him as Nico. He was from Italy and had worked in all kinds of fashion shows. I actually felt sorry for the man—my face was a far cry from the models he was used to working with.

“Oh darling, you have cheekbones to die for and flawless skin. Your mother was right. You are a blank canvas and I can’t wait for my turn to work on you after Mario finishes with your hair.”

This is some kind of conspiracy. I narrowed my eyes at Nico, noticing his slender hands fly around as he gestured wildly. Blank canvas indeed. He was acting as if he were damn Picasso, measuring my face with the sides of his long make-up brushes.

“Perfect proportions,” he gasped. “Oh honey, this is the highlight of my damn week.”

Great. Now I was certain I was on a make-over show. The salon was beautifully decorated with huge chandeliers and gilded mirrors. The perfect backdrop for glamorous people—or turning ugly ducklings into swans.

“Mario—” I pulled at the black gown he’d placed around my neck earlier, ready to get up from the chair.

“Hush, Bella. Trust, yes? Nico is the most talented makeup artist I’ve ever worked with. He does stage makeup for famous actors and he’s done all the fashion models too . . . you are in good hands.”