The town car purred through midtown, and within ten minutes we pulled up to a place with no sign, no windows, and a door so glossy black it practically reflected your credit score. The driver stepped out, opened the door, and Leila slid out like royalty returning from exile.
I followed, already feeling out of place, which apparently was the point.
She buzzed twice on a panel by the door.
A moment later, it cracked open and a voice with the volume of a Broadway emcee burst through:
“Leila, darling, you’re late. Fashion doesn’t wait, not even for royalty with cheekbones and a world class backside.”
The door opened wider, and Viktor swanned into view.
Tall. Lean. Wearing red leather loafers with ankle socks, black slacks that fit like sin, and a gold silk shirt half-unbuttoned and entirely unbothered by conventional taste. His hair was platinum. His nails were painted. And his eyes locked onto me like a hawk spotting a dying gazelle.
“Oh no,” he whispered. Then louder: “*Oh no.* What is this? Did you pick him up at a gas station or did someone deliver him in a box labeled ‘Rugged Discount’?”
Leila grinned. “Viktor, meet Paul. He’s playing my boyfriend this weekend.”
Viktor circled me like a shark, making thoughtful, dramatic sounds under his breath. He stopped, finger pressed to his lips.
“This is a challenge,” he announced, delighted. “I accept.”
Paul gave him a lazy grin. “You sure? I might be beyond salvaging. And we already check the return policy there is not take backs.”
Viktor waved a hand. “Please. I once turned a Lithuanian bodyguard into the face of a Calvin Klein Lean and Clean campaign. And you…” He paused, squinted at my face. “You have potential. Like if James Bond had a dirty phase and stopped caring about life for a bit.”
Leila snorted.
“I’m standing *right here,* you know.”
“And so is this shirt,” Viktor said, poking at it with a manicured finger. “This… textile crime. Is this ketchup? Or is that *paint*?”
“Art,” I said. “From a wall. I fell through it.”
“Tragic,” Viktor whispered. “Come, we’ll burn it ceremonially. Now strip.”
“Pardon?”
“Strip. Off. Now.” He clapped. “Leila, darling, help him if he gets shy.”
“I’m good,” I muttered, pulling the shirt over my head. The jeans followed.
Leila had perched herself on a tufted velvet settee, scrolling through her messages. She didn’t even glance up—though I noticed she did slow her scrolling just a little. One corner of her mouth twitched.
“You’re enjoying this,” I said.
“A little,” she admitted.
Viktor reappeared, arms full of fabric. “Okay, let’s start with the navy. No, charcoal. No, wait, midnight blue. You have a dangerous aura. We need to lean into that.”
“I’m more of a T-shirt-and-don’t-get-shot kind of guy.”
Viktor waved that off. “Yes, yes, everyone loves a tragic hero. Right now, stand still and let me wrap you in magic.”
Over the next thirty minutes, I was buttoned, pinned, cuffed, and judged.
Multiple times.
Viktor fussed with my shoulders. “You have the back of a man who’s done terrible things for the government.”
I rolled my eyes.
He turned to Leila. “And this *face*—ugh, once we clean it up, give him a shave, maybe push the hair back… this is going to hurt people. Emotionally.”
She glanced up and met my eyes. Her smile was subtle. Real.
“It already does,” she murmured, half to herself.
I wasn’t sure what to make of that.
“Alright!” Viktor clapped again. “Three jackets, two slacks, two evening suit. Custom-fitted, hand-stitched, and sexy enough to fake a relationship with that.” He pointed dramatically at Leila. “You’re welcome.”
She gave a mock-curtsy. “As always, Viktor. Your taste is loud, but impeccable.”
He blew her a kiss.
Then turned back to me. “You, mountain man, are a walking tragedy no longer. Now go try on the suit with the lapel I adore—*you know the one.*”
I stepped into the changing room as Leila’s phone buzzed again. She rolled her eyes but didn’t stop smiling. Text after text came through, her screen lighting up like a pinball machine.
The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.
“Family?” I called through the curtain.
“Worse,” she said. “Media. Friends of friends. Word got out I’m bringing someone.”
I peeked out. “They that curious?”
“They’re that *hopeful.* Hoping I’ve come to my senses and chosen someone ‘appropriate.’”
“Sorry to disappoint,” I said, stepping out.
The room went quiet for half a beat.
Leila looked up.
Even Viktor stopped mid-rant.
“...Well, damn,” she breathed.
The suit fit like it had been made by angels and approved by devils. Midnight blue, soft as sin, sharp enough to make a statement in a room full of egos.
Viktor put a hand on his heart. “I am *so good at this*.”
Leila said nothing, but she was still looking.
Still smiling.
And for the first time, she looked like she was starting to believe this might actually work.
“Now that you look like a man who knows what caviar tastes like but have fallen on hard times,” Viktor said, clapping his hands, “there’s just one more stop.”
I checked my reflection in the tailor’s mirror. The suit alone felt like wearing confidence. The tailored jacket hugged my shoulders, the shirt opened just enough to be dangerous, and the slacks—well, let’s just say Viktor had opinions about ‘presentation.’ Still, I couldn’t deny it. I looked… sharp.
Leila stood behind me, studying the finished product. “Not bad,” she said softly. “You clean up well.”
“High praise,” I muttered. “So, what’s next? Ballroom dancing? Charm school? Are you going to teach what fork to use?”
“Salon,” she said, like it was a verdict.
I turned. “Salon? Like... a haircut?”
Viktor made a sound like I’d just insulted his ancestors. “*A haircut?* Darling, we’re not giving you a trim and a lollipop. We’re taking you to Vanessa. She’s going to peel you like an onion and rebuild you as a *fantasy.*”
I cocked en eyebrow. ‘Nothing abou that sounds pleasant.”
They ignored my comment.
Leila was already headed for the door. “We’ve got an appointment in fifteen minutes. Viktor pulled some strings.”
I followed, slightly concerned. “Is this going to hurt?”
“Only your pride,” Viktor said sweetly. “And possibly your chest hair.”
---
The salon was tucked into a discreet brownstone on the Upper East Side—no signs, no walk-ins, just a name whispered among the rich and obsessively well-groomed: **Maison V.**
Viktor swept through the door like he owned the place. “Vanessa!” he called. “I brought you a fixer-upper!”
The salon smelled like lavender and success. Everything was white marble, brushed gold, and soft lighting. A team of women in sleek black uniforms turned at once—like a coven sensing blood.
From behind a curved desk, a woman emerged in heels too high for physics and a body-hugging black dress that could’ve been painted on. Long waves of dark brown hair, glowing skin, and a grin sharp enough to file patents.
“Victor,” she said, kissing both his cheeks, “you brought me a challenge?”
“I brought you *him.*”
She turned to look at me, assessing in less than a second. “Hmm. Beautiful bone structure. Great shoulders. Beard’s got potential. We can work with this.”
“Why do people keep talking to me like I am not here?”
She smirked. “Ahh the fate of the talentless, ugly and broke. But you honey. You’ll be everywhere soon.”
“I literally have no idea what that means.”
Leila sank into a velvet chair with a stack of magazines and sparkling water, watching the circus unfold with amused detachment.
Vanessa clapped her hands. “Alright, girls! Phase one: de-grizzle. Let’s show this mountain man what civilization feels like.”
I was guided—no, *escorted*—to a leather reclining chair and surrounded by three assistants, all of whom looked like they moonlighted as influencers. One began soaking my hands. Another applied a warm towel to my face. The third—God help me—started taking out clippers.
I flinched. “Wait, we’re not doing anything *weird,* right?”
“No,” Vanessa said sweetly. “Just fixing everything.”
There was scrubbing. Moisturizing. Exfoliating. A manicure that was somehow masculine. I didn’t even know my skin *could* feel like this.
Then came the haircut. Vanessa herself handled that—scissors flashing like weapons, fingers combing through my hair with practiced ease.
“You’ve got that tortured hero look,” she said. “Women eat that up.”
“I’m not tortured.”
She arched her brow. “You look like you have at least one tragic backstory. Maybe two.”
Leila snorted from across the room. “Three, minimum.”
“Et tu, Leila?” I called, eyes shut as Vanessa adjusted my jaw for what had to be the eighth time.
She didn’t respond, but I could hear the smile in her silence.
---
An hour later, I stood in front of the salon’s full-length mirror.
And even I had to admit—it was a problem.
The man staring back at me wasn’t the guy who’d walked in wearing paint-stained jeans and a ten-dollar hoodie. This guy had a presence. Strong jawline, now visible under the expertly trimmed stubble. Hair swept back, sharp and stylish but still just a little wild. The suit looked even better now that I didn’t have a week’s worth of road dust clinging to my face.
“You look like a bloody prince,” one of the assistants breathed.
“Like someone who tips in diamonds,” said another.
The third just sighed. “Marry me?”
I blinked. “I—what?”
She blushed. “Sorry. It slipped out.”
Viktor stepped in behind me, arms crossed, grinning like a madman. “Good lord I am amazing. YOu are now stupidly handsome. This is your final form. You’re going to cause accidents.”
Leila finally stood, brushing nonexistent lint from her blouse. “Well. If they don’t believe we’re a couple after this…”
She trailed off, eyes running down the length of me. No snark. No sarcasm.
Just a look.
A long one.
And then she turned. “Let’s go. The car’s waiting.”
As I followed, Viktor patted my shoulder. “Remember, darling—chin up, shoulders back, and smirk like you know every dirty secret in the room.”
I leaned down and whispered, “What if I *do*?”
He winked. “Then own it.”
Vanessa called after us, “Try not to destroy too many lives tonight, handsome!”
Leila looked back at me as we stepped outside. “You know,” she said, “this just might work. I am starting to believe. Man can I pick them.”
I smiled. “Says the woman without an actual boyfriend and is desperate enough to higher a random strange. Yeah you killed.”
She ignored me. The salon doors closed behind us with a quiet click, and for the first time in weeks, I felt the tension in my shoulders ease.
