Chapter 19: The Bitchy Client
The morning light in the studio was different. Sharper. It didn’t glow so much as it glared, exposing every dust mote dancing above the empty chair. Dee moved through the space with a methodical focus, arranging her tools on the trolley: shears, clips, comb. The cobalt-blue handles of her favorites were tucked away in the drawer. She used the anonymous pair now.
Her phone buzzed incessantly on the counter—a steady stream of congratulatory DMs and comments on the edited video. She ignored them. The “I saw—” message from last night remained unopened, a little pocket of dread.
“Sarah?” Dee called out, aligning a row of styling products. “Can you confirm my ten o’clock? A ‘Ms. Smith’?”
From the small back room, her assistant’s voice floated back. “Yep! Just a blowout and style. New client. She found you through the… uh, the viral thing.”
Dee’s jaw tightened. The viral thing. Of course. She took a slow breath, inhaling lavender and her own resolve. This was just work. This was what she controlled.
The door chimed at exactly ten.
The woman who entered wasn’t a ‘Ms. Smith.’ Dee knew it instantly. She carried the kind of polished, expensive aura that sucked the casual comfort right out of the room. Sleek blonde hair pulled into a low knot, a cream sheath dress that cost more than Dee’s monthly rent, eyes the color of frost over a lake. She was beautiful in a way that was designed to intimidate.
“Dee Waldorf?” The woman’s smile was a perfectly calibrated curve.
“That’s me. You must be Ms. Smith.” Dee didn’t return the smile.
“A necessary fiction, I’m afraid. My assistant handles my bookings. I’m Elara. Elara Vance.”
The name landed like a physical object between them. Matt’s Elara. The one from the finance gala photos, the one with the arm threaded through his in a dozen society columns Dee had tortured herself with. The one he’d have sex with when she came in with wine.
The air thickened. The lavender scent turned cloying.
“I see,” Dee said, her voice miraculously steady. She turned to the back room. “Sarah?”
Sarah appeared, bright-eyed and holding a tablet. “Yeah, boss?”
“Check the booking details for Ms. ‘Smith’. Now.”
Elara let out a light, tinkling laugh. It was the sound of champagne flutes touching. “Oh, don’t blame the girl. I wanted to see you. The famous Dee. After last night’s… performance.”
Dee kept her eyes on Sarah, who was frantically scrolling, her face paling. “Boss, it just says ‘Smith,’ I’m so sorry, I didn’t—”
“It’s fine, Sarah.” Dee cut her off. She finally looked at Elara. The woman’s gaze was traveling over Dee’s curls, her worn-but-chic linen trousers, her knuckles as they whitened around the comb she held. It was an appraisal, and Dee was found wanting. “I’m afraid there’s been a misunderstanding. I’m fully booked.”
“You have me for ninety minutes,” Elara said smoothly, gliding toward the chair as if it were a throne. She sat, meeting Dee’s eyes in the mirror. Her reflection was cool, amused. “I’d like the works. Whatever you did to make Matt look so… interesting. Before he showed up here looking like a haunted scarecrow, that is.”
Every word was a needle, expertly placed.
Dee’s heart was a frantic drum against her ribs. The control she’d rebuilt, brick by brick last night, began to fissure. She saw her own face in the mirror—the forced neutrality, the fear in her honey-brown eyes. She saw Elara’s triumphant calm.
“Sarah.” Dee’s voice was too quiet, too tight.
“Yeah, Dee?”
“Take over this appointment. Give Ms. Vance whatever she wants. On the house.”
Sarah’s mouth fell open. “But I’m not— I can’t do a cut, you know I just do washes and—”
“Then wash her hair!” Dee’s shout shattered the morning quiet. It was raw, ragged, a sound she didn’t recognize. She took a shuddering step back from the chair, from Elara’s smirk.
Elara didn’t flinch. She just tilted her head, the picture of condescending pity. “Oh, darling. Did I hit a nerve? He told me, you know. About his little crush on his hairstylist. I found it rather quaint. I just never thought he’d actually act on it. Or that you’d be so… clever with your little video. Cutting out the messy bits.”
The world narrowed to the sharp lines of Elara’s shoulder blades, to the scent of her perfume—something icy and floral that warred with the lavender. Dee’s hands, her talented, steady hands, were trembling. She couldn’t stop them. The idea of touching this woman’s hair, of having her hands that close to that smug, beautiful face, made her stomach roll.
“I won’t touch you,” Dee said, the words dropping like stones.
Elara’s laugh this time was shorter, crueler. “No, I suppose you wouldn’t. It must be difficult, seeing what he actually belongs with. He gets confused, Matt does. Chases a bit of novelty. But he always comes home. He just needed to get you out of his system.” She stood, smoothing her dress. “I mainly wanted to see what all the fuss was about. The woman who ‘almost had Matt.’ It’s cute, really. You’ve built such a charming little life here.”
She picked up her purse, giving the studio one last dismissive glance. “Keep the appointment time. Consider it a consolation prize.”
She walked out, the door chiming softly behind her as if nothing had happened.
The silence she left was deafening. It was full of the things she’d said, the things Dee had always feared were true.
Sarah stood frozen, a bottle of shampoo dripping onto the floor. “Dee… I am so, so sorry. I had no idea.”
Dee couldn’t speak. She walked to the sink and turned on the cold water, plunging her shaking hands under the stream. She gripped the porcelain basin, head bowed, watching the water swirl down the drain.
“It’s fine,” she whispered finally, but it wasn’t. The carefully edited video, the controlled narrative—it was a paper shield, and Elara had just held a match to it. Everyone had seen the performance. Elara had seen the wreckage behind the curtain.
She shut off the water. Dried her hands on a towel, each movement slow and deliberate. The familiar weight of the anonymous shears was in her hand again. She walked to her station, to the empty chair, and just stared at her reflection.
The woman in the mirror looked like her. But her eyes were different. The ache she’d carried for years had been named, called out, and humiliated. It wasn’t a secret love anymore. It was a public delusion.
Her phone buzzed. Then buzzed again. The world outside, her digital kingdom, was waiting. They wanted the charming, sharp-tongued Dee. They wanted the next video, the next laugh, the next perfectly filtered moment.