Chapter 90

Iris

The following morning, I’m yanked from sleep by the sound of knocking at my door. Groaning, I roll over and squint at my phone. It’s barely past seven. Who the hell is here so early?

When the knocking doesn’t stop, I drag myself out of bed, pulling on my robe as I stumble toward the door.

I peer through the peephole and see an unfamiliar woman in a crisp pantsuit, flanked by Ezra and another security guard. Is this my new security detail?

The moment I open the door, the woman extends her hand with a bright smile. “Good morning. I’m the head of styling for the President’s PR team. I’m here to prepare you for tonight’s gala.”

“I—what?” I blink at her, still half-asleep. I almost forgot I agreed to go to that event with Arthur, but I didn’t expect this. I glance at Ezra. “Arthur didn’t mention anything about a stylist.”

“The Alpha President arranged for a full styling team this morning,” the woman says, and Ezra shrugs, looking mildly amused. “May we come in? We have quite a lot to accomplish before tonight.”

Before I can respond, she’s already sweeping past me into the apartment, followed by two assistants I hadn’t even noticed standing behind her, each carrying multiple garment bags and large cases.

“Wait, I haven’t even had coffee yet,” I protest, but the stylist is already surveying my living room and laying out her instruments.

“This will do for hair and makeup,” she says, gesturing to my small dining table. “We’ll use the bedroom for fittings. Is the child home? We’ll need privacy.”

“The child has a name,” I mutter. “Miles is sleeping. And I didn’t agree to any of this.”

The stylist finally pauses, looking at me directly. “The Alpha President didn’t inform you?”

“He mentioned a gala. Not a complete makeover at dawn.”

She checks her watch. “It’s hardly dawn, Ms.—” She stops herself, uncertain how to address me.

“Iris is fine,” I say, suddenly feeling very exposed in my thin robe and messy hair.

“Iris,” she repeats, her professional smile returning. “I understand this is unexpected, but you’re about to make your first public appearance as the Alpha President’s mate. The eyes of the nation—the entire world, really—will be on you. Every detail will be scrutinized, from your nail color to your posture. We’re here to ensure you make the right impression.”

The right impression. As if I’m some kind of political prop rather than a person.

“I need coffee,” I say firmly. “And I need to check on Miles. Then we can talk about… whatever this is.”

To her credit, the stylist backs off. “Of course. We’ll set up while you gather yourself.”

By the time I return from checking on Miles, who’s still blissfully asleep, and brewing a much-needed pot of coffee, my apartment has been transformed into a mini salon. Lights, mirrors, and various tools and products now cover every surface. One assistant is steaming dresses while the other arranges what looks like hundreds of makeup products on my table.

I pour coffee for everyone and hand the cups out. The security guard, a tall and muscular woman with close-cropped blonde hair and kind eyes, accepts her cup with a formal nod of her chin. Ezra gives me a sympathetic look, but introduces me to my new bodyguard.

“Nice to meet you, Emi,” I say, shaking her hand. “I guess we’re gonna be close friends now.”

The bodyguard nods and says nothing. A woman of few words, I see, not that I’m complaining. And I’m glad that Arthur hired a woman as my personal guard.

“So,” I say, clutching my coffee mug as I turn to the stylist, “what exactly is the plan here?”

The stylist gestures for me to sit. “Hair, makeup, dress selection, final styling. We brought several options approved by the PR department—all suitable for a diplomatic gala while allowing for your personal style.”

She glances at my worn pajama pants visible beneath my robe, both of which have paint splatters on them. “Which is…eclectic, I understand.”

I take a large sip of coffee to avoid responding.

“Look,” I say, setting down my mug, “I appreciate that Arthur wants me to look presentable, but this seems excessive. I’m perfectly capable of dressing myself for a party.”

“This isn’t just a party,” the stylist retorts. “This is your introduction to Ordan society as the Alpha President’s mate—the first human Luna in our nation’s history. The traditionalists will be looking for any excuse to criticize you, to prove that humans don’t belong in the highest echelons of our society.”

I want to tell her that I’m not even officially the “Luna” of Ordan yet, that Arthur and I are still… figuring everything out relationship-wise. But it doesn’t really matter, does it?

She holds out her tablet, showing me a news article from this morning. The headline reads: “Alpha President’s Human Mate: Who Is She?” Below it, there’s a grainy photo of me leaving the Marsiel gallery from the night I reconnected with Arthur a few months ago.

In the picture, I’m wearing paint-splattered jeans and my yellow sweater with the hole in it, my hair messy from a long day of work.

“They’ve already figured out your name and your alter-ego, Flora,” the stylist says. “By tonight, they’ll know everything else about you, whether you go to the gala or not. So it’s very important that we get ahead of the rumors and present you to them in the most positive light possible.”

I sink into a chair, realizing she’s right. But this is what I wanted, isn’t it? To be by Arthur’s side in public, to pronounce our love to the world.

What follows is the most intense beauty regimen I’ve ever experienced. My hair is washed, dried, styled, and then restyled when the stylist decides the first attempt is “too provincial.”

My face is analyzed relentlessly, with discussions about bone structure and undertones that make me feel like a science experiment. My eyebrows are shaped, my nails buffed and painted a neutral shade of pink.

The dress selection process is equally exhausting. Each option is analyzed for political implications. A red dress is “too aggressive for a first appearance.” Blue is “too reminiscent of the opposition party’s colors.” Green is “sending mixed environmental messages considering the Alpha President’s recent legislation.”

I never realized clothing could be so politically charged.

After hours of this, I’m starting to question everything. If a simple gala appearance requires this much preparation, what would daily life be like as Arthur’s mate? Would every outfit be scrutinized, every appearance planned to the minute? Could I live like that? Could Miles?

By sunset—yes, it takes that long, so long that we all have to stop multiple times for meals and bathroom breaks—the transformation is complete. I stand in front of the full-length mirror they’ve somehow materialized in my living room, barely recognizing myself.

My hair is elegantly styled in loose waves, pinned back on one side with a subtle diamond clip. My makeup is flawless but not overdone, enhancing my features while still looking natural. The dress they’ve finally settled on is a deep emerald silk that flows like water when I move, cut to flatter my figure without being too revealing.

“Well?” the stylist asks, watching my reaction carefully.

I turn, admiring how the dress catches the light. “It’s… beautiful,” I admit. And it is. Despite all my irritation with the process, I can’t deny the results are stunning. I’ve never looked like this before—polished, elegant, like I belong in the world of galas and diplomats.

“The green is perfect with your coloring,” the stylist says, clearly pleased with her work. “Sophisticated but with a creative edge. The silhouette works well for press photos, and the color photographs beautifully under flash.”

Of course. Everything is perfectly calculated for maximum media impact.

Just then, a knock at the door interrupts us. Emi opens it, revealing Arthur standing in the hallway. He’s wearing a perfectly tailored black tuxedo that makes him look even more handsome than usual, if that’s possible.

He stops short when he sees me, his eyes widening slightly.

“Iris,” he breathes, taking a step into the apartment. “You look… incredible.”

Despite myself, I blush. “Thank you. Apparently, there’s a lot that goes into being presentable for the public eye.” I think I’m finally starting to understand why Selina was—is—such a narcissist. How can one not be when they spend entire days at a time focusing on their appearance, and looking damn good afterwards?

Arthur glances at the others. “Could you give us a moment?”

Everyone, even Emi and Ezra, discreetly steps out, leaving us alone in the living room.

“I’m sorry about all this,” Arthur says, gesturing to the beauty station setup. “I should have warned you.”

“Yes, you should have,” I agree, but I’m not angry. “Is it always going to be like this? Teams of people, every detail planned and analyzed?”

Arthur steps closer, taking my hand gently. “Not always. Just for big events, important appearances. The rest of the time, you can be yourself.”

“Can I?” I ask softly. “Or will I always be the Alpha President’s human mate, under constant scrutiny?”

His expression softens. “Iris, you’re beautiful with or without all of this. You’re utterly captivating just being you. Soon enough, the public will realize the thing I’ve known for years.”

My heart flutters traitorously in my chest. Damn him and his perfect words.

He grins, sensing the shift in my demeanor. “Is Miles ready for his sleepover with Alice and Hunter?”

“Yes. He’s very excited.” Thankfully, Alice and Hunter agreed to be babysitters tonight, both refusing to take payment. I’m already thinking of ways to make it up to them.

A little while later, Alice and Hunter arrive, and it’s time to go. Alice beams at me, giving me a tight hug before I leave. “You’re gonna do great,” she whispers in my ear. “They’ll love you. And you look fucking hot.”

I hope she’s right. Even about that last part.

The drive to the gala venue is mostly silent. I bob my leg in my seat, nervous beyond compare. I’ve never been this nervous attending any events as ‘Flora’, not even when I had to give my presentation for the residency.

Finally, we arrive at the venue, and Arthur opens the car door. The crowd erupts in cheers as he steps out. Camera flashes light up the night sky. Arthur turns, extending his hand to help me out.

I place my hand in his, steadying myself as I emerge from the car. The noise is overwhelming—hundreds of voices all shouting at once, some cheering, some booing.

But it’s the cameras that really hit me—dozens, maybe hundreds of flashes going off simultaneously, blinding me.