I was… the chick in the Lambo.
“Focus, Emmaleen. And don’t get used to any of this. One week,” I remind myself. “One fucking week and you get to blow this town as your life catapults into a new stratosphere.”
Thirteen minutes.
All these weeks of forced two-minute showers have paid off in dividends. I’ve got this whole “efficient personal hygiene” thing down to a military operation. Hair, body, face—bam, bam, bam. No time for existential crises under the spray. Save those for when you’re fully clothed.
I step into the attic bedroom wrapped in the world’s most luxurious towel, and—holy exposure, Batman. It’s a fishbowl. A lighthouse. Gorgeous. I don’t even care that anyone in town with a pair of binoculars can look in.
There’s a metal casing on the top of each window—custom black-out blinds, I guess. But right now, the blinds are up, and the entire town of Riverview could be watching me do my towel dance. Hello, citizens! Enjoy the show! Today’s performance: “Homeless Girl Pretends She Belongs Here.”
The bed is oddly a twin, which makes absolutely no sense in this palatial fish tank of a room. What the hell? It’s like putting bicycle wheels on a Ferrari—a jarring mismatch that makes me wonder if this is some kind of weird power play. The frame is gorgeous, all dark wood and intricate carvings, but the mattress itself is narrow, barely wider than a college dorm bed.
In a room with enough square footage to host a small wedding reception, the bed looks like an afterthought, or worse—a deliberate choice to remind me of my place in this mansion. Is this Giovanni’s subtle way of ensuring I don’t get too comfortable? Or maybe it’s just another test, another way to see how I’ll react without saying a word.
Eleven minutes.
The closet looks like a retail showroom that had an affair with an Apple Store. Every surface is pristine white or glass. The hanging rods are illuminated from within, casting a soft glow on... nothing. The closet is empty except for seven garment bags hanging in military precision. A rainbow of future humiliation: white, black, pink, peach, gray, red, and light green.
The shoe wall is an open grid of possibility—each cubby waiting to imprison some poor woman’s foot in torturous beauty. There’s a central island with a marble top and the drawers have those fancy no-handle fronts that you push to open.
I’m afraid to touch anything. I carefully—so carefully—lift the white garment bag from its hook. The bag itself is a flex: matte white perfection with a custom-stitched leather handle that probably required the sacrifice of a virgin calf raised on organic milk and Mozart. The zipper is industrial-grade, running the full length of the bag, and the whole thing has a weight to it that whispers “expensive” in that way only truly expensive things can.
Back in the bedroom (where at least the carpet will catch my inevitable stress sweat), I lay the garment bag on the bed and unzip it with the reverence of an archaeologist unsealing a pharaoh’s tomb.
“Let’s see what Giovanni thinks is appropriate for ‘Take Your Assistant to Crime Family Dinner’ night,” I mutter.
First up: a white cotton blouse so crisp it could cut glass. The sleeves are tucked behind with precision that suggests either military training or obsessive-compulsive disorder. Probably both, in Giovanni’s case.
“Very Sharon Stone inBasic Instinctmeets Mormon missionary,” I whisper, lifting it gingerly.
Clipped to the same hanger with padded clamps—because heaven forbid fabric touches fabric—is a high-waisted pencil skirt. White. Of course it’s white. Because nothing says “I make good life choices” like wearing white to dinner with the mob.
“Perfect for highlighting bloodstains and marinara sauce,” I note, already imagining the inevitable disaster.
Behind the main hanger is a lingerie insert that makes me stop short. A nude lace bra with sheer detailing that’s somehow both tasteful and suggestive, and matching thong panties folded into a white mesh envelope like they’re classified documents.
“Did he... measure me in my sleep?” I wonder aloud, holding the bra against my chest. It looks exactly my size. This is either impressive or terrifying. Possibly both.
The bottom of the bag has a zipped pouch containing—what else?—nude Louboutins. Each shoe is individually wrapped to prevent scuffing, because God forbid these $1,000 foot-torture devices get a scratch. At least they’re not red this time. Progress?
Tucked into the blouse sleeve is a small white velvet drawstring pouch. Inside: a thin gold chain necklace so delicate it’s barely visible, diamond stud earrings that whisper “expensive” rather than scream it, and—thoughtfully—backup earring backs.
“The Giovanni Bavga Starter Kit: How to Look Like You’ve Never Had a Thought of Your Own,” I narrate to myself.
In a side pocket, I find a ziplock pouch with makeup instructions in Giovanni’s handwriting: “Matte finish only. No gloss. Keep lips neutral. Do not use shimmer.”
“Thanks for the creative freedom, Project Runway,” I snort, examining the contents: blotting papers, a compact, and a brand-new rose matte lipstick still in its box.
Laid flat at the base of the bag is a white leather clutch with no strap—because apparently Giovanni thinks women never need their hands free. The interior is already loaded with his corporate card, a crisp one-hundred-dollar bill, a backup lipstick, a tampon (at least he acknowledges basic biology), Advil, and a mint.
“The perfect accessory for the woman who has no identity of her own,” I mutter, snapping it closed.
And then, thepièce de résistance: a Post-it note inside the bag flap, in Giovanni’s handwriting: “Don’t embarrass me.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it, Your Majesty,” I say to the empty room.
This isn’t just an outfit. It’s a complete aesthetic takeover from the skin out. Giovanni’s vision of controlled feminine professionalism, heavy on the controlled. The only thing missing is a remote that allows him to operate my facial expressions.