Chapter 2: The Dramatic Fashionista

Stepping through the grand double doors of my penthouse apartment, I was met with excited barks and frantic meows. Ah, my precious furbabies! There was nothing quite like the unconditional love and slightly destructive tendencies of my four-legged companions to greet you after a long day.

First to erupt was Coco, my pint-sized Chihuahua, a vision in a custom-made pink sequin dog sweater that perfectly complemented her diamond-encrusted collar just like my other three dogs. Their collar was also customized by location trackers in case they got lost or kidnapped.

Coco yipped and yapped, her tiny legs churning like pistons as she attempted to launch herself into my arms.

Next came Mr. Bigglesworth, my gloriously fluffy Persian cat, sporting a bowtie. He brushed against my ankles, emitting a low rumble. Just like Coco, they both have humble beginnings and I rescued them both from the streets of Paris. They were actually my first pets before I decided to adopt another two. And I love them all the same.

Then there was Princess Penelope, my Doberman Pinscher, a sleek, elegant creature who nonetheless possessed the heart of a playful puppy. She bounded towards me, tail wagging furiously, before coming to a controlled stop at my feet. 

"Oh, my precious babies!" I cried, dropping to my knees. Each pet in turn received a generous helping of kisses and ear scratches, their luxurious fur tickling my nose with each nuzzle. Then my gaze went to their Chanel customized clothes. "Is it Chanel day today huh?"

Content with their welcome home reception, Coco and Penelope scampered off down the hallway, presumably towards the awaiting dog treats and monogrammed water bowls. Mr. Bigglesworth, with a final regal flick of his tail, sashayed towards his favorite napping spot on the silk chaise lounge.

Watching them retreat to their luxurious pampered lives, you couldn't help but let out a soft chuckle. "I just know they would trade me for their treats any day"

Sir Reginald, who is a Bengal cat, however, was nowhere to be seen. Just then, a petite woman with a calm demeanor and an encyclopedic knowledge of feline psychology materialized from a feather toy clutched in her hand.

"Good day, Miss Scarlett," she greeted her voice a soothing balm. 

"Hi, Martha. Is Sir Reginald still on it?"

Martha chuckled, "Sir Reginald seems content to watch the birdies on the nature channel in the pet's room."

With a sigh, I conceded defeat. Sir Reginald was a creature of habit, and disturbing his meticulously crafted schedule was a waiting disaster and possibly another scratch on the arm. 

"I mean who am I right to be greeted and disrupt his viewing pleasure." I intentionally say it out loud mostly for my nonchalant cat. "Anyways, Martha, I'm going to be away for a few days. So, you will need to stay at my parent's house for a few days, okay?"

"Understood, Miss Scarlett," Martha said, her smile widening. "They'll be well looked after. And don't worry, I'll make sure Sir Reginald gets his daily dose of birdwatching."

"Excellent," I smiled, rising to my feet and smoothing out the nonexistent wrinkles on my designer dress. "Did you already eat?"

"Yes, Miss Scarlett"

With that, I sashayed off towards my living room, leaving Martha to her duties and my precious furbabies.

Step into my living room, it feels like a lush, girly haven where everything screams luxury but feels as comfy as your favorite blanket.

The floor beneath your feet? It's all about that plush cream Fendi Casa rug. The walls? I've got a touch of blush, thanks to Farrow & Ball, casting this warm, cozy vibe. Now, let's talk about the star of the show – my mega Versace Home sectional sofa. It's not just a sofa; it's a velvet dream that's basically begging you to sink in. And those throw pillows? They're rocking the Hermès Avalon blanket pattern because, well, why not bring a bit of Paris to my penthouse right? In the middle of it all, there's this coffee table from Kartell– crystal clear with gold accents. I can't help but stare at it while sipping your coffee.

Lights? I've got a Baccarat chandelier stealing the spotlight. And I have those Armani Casa floor lamps on either side of the sofa. While my walls are Yayoi KuGaba and a travel gallery capturing my adventures. Oh, and a Steinway & Sons grand piano in the corner – because what's a room without a bit of music? And I love playing piano especially if I am stressed.

Textures and patterns play together – a Roberto Cavalli throw casually tossed on the sofa. And there's this Lalique crystal vase, holding a bunch of fresh peonies – my absolute favorite flowers. Pure bliss.

Everything is soft and chic. You'd think Barbie was my interior designer.

"Chef Luigi," I called out, kicking off my heels and tossing my bag onto the couch. "Hope you're cooking up something that will relieve my stress today."

My personal chef, who has been with me since I was 13, a kind Italian man with a white hat perched on his head, chuckled. "Signorina Scarlett, I hope Quinoa Royale Salad will do the trick."

He has been my chef since childhood, and for many years to come, I refused to change him. Aside from being a top-notch cook, I trust him, a rarity in my world.

I smiled gratefully. "Oh, it definitely would. Thanks."

He nodded, returning to the kitchen. The scent of something heavenly wafted through the air. As I strolled around, admiring the new decor pieces I'd bought on a whim, my phone buzzed incessantly.

Plopping onto the couch, I swiped through messages from Edward, Lisa, and friends, and a barrage of notifications from a world I was currently ignoring for some much-needed relaxation. Then, one message caught my eye: an email regarding the Blackwood Corporation. Ugh.

I tossed the phone aside and flopped onto the nearest chair. "I'm so tired," I lamented, throwing my head back dramatically.

Luigi chuckled again from the kitchen. "Troubles, Signorina Scarlett?"

"You could say that," I replied with a dramatic sigh. "Meeting with some big shots from Blackwood Corporation and some trouble with my fashion line."

He emerged from the kitchen, a plate of exquisitely arranged food in hand. "Well, I'm sure whoever this fellow is, he's in for a treat when he meets you."

"Oh, I'll make sure of it. He won't know what hit him." But I eyed the food in hand, grinning at him. "But first, let me eat."

I sat down, eyeing the plate. I waited until Luigi took a small bite first, savoring the flavors. The suspense was killing me; my eyes practically pleaded for approval.

After a moment, he gave a satisfied nod. Relieved, I grinned, "You never disappoint, Sir Luigi."

The trauma from childhood food poisoning had left me wary, but Luigi's taste test was my security blanket. I dug into the dish, savoring each bite. Since I was 13, something had happened, and I developed a deep-seated fear of consuming food without it being tasted by someone I trusted.

Whenever I ate, my food needed to be tasted first by my family, Sir Luigi, or Lisa only. When I was alone in a meeting, I refrained from drinking or eating and came up with excuses. I frequently had packed lunches from Luigi, or I would call Lisa to taste my food for me. Living like this for many years was hard, but I had grown accustomed to it in the long run.

"Hmm, this is magnificent, Sir Luigi," I commented between mouthfuls.

Luigi chuckled a warm and reassuring sound that echoed through the kitchen. "Grazie, Signorina Scarlett."

As the delightful meal vanished off my plate, I made my way to my room, ready to tackle the dreaded task of packing. I slipped into my rocking Agent Provocateur Silk Pajama Set, paired with Giuseppe Zanotti Lydie Espadrilles and a La Perla Maison Silk Robe, all while keeping it chill with a loose, low bun held together by a silk scrunchie.

Now, you'd think packing for a short trip would be a breeze for a fashionista like me, right?

Wrong. Big No.

I swung open the doors to my walk-in closet, greeted by a long array of rainbow colors, designer labels, and long lines of outfits fit for a runway. Custom shoe racks showcased my extensive collection of Christian Louboutin heels. But here I was, clueless on how to pack.

"Okay, Scarlett, focus," I muttered to myself, trying to summon some semblance of organization.

Grabbing my Goyard Ambassade GM Suitcases, I selected a few dresses, stylish skirts, and tops that screamed sophistication—a must-have for any important meeting, even if it was in Hicksville.

"No, no, no," I scolded myself. "Keep it simple, girl. Less is more."

I repeated my personal fashion mantra but somehow ended up shoving an entire shoe collection into my suitcase. Who knew I'd need stilettos in the countryside?

I frowned at the growing pile of items on my bed. Attempting to stuff them all in, elbows deep in my suitcase, I struggled with the zipper, only to have it snap shut with an unsatisfying 'thwack', refusing to accommodate my overzealousness.

"Alright, you asked for it," I muttered, attempting a wrestler's grip on the zipper.

The struggle was real, my friends. A pair of designer jeans decided to peek out, a sequined top protested against confinement, and my scarf collection looked like it was about to split in half.

With a huff of exasperation, I surrendered. "Can you cooperate?" I jabbed a finger at the stubborn luggage as if it could understand me.

Sighing dramatically, I started the process again, determined to condense my clothes into a more sensible selection. Then I squared my shoulders, ready for round two. I mean, how hard could it be to fit a few essentials, right? Wrong again, apparently.

"Alright, Scarlett, you got this," I muttered, eying the chaotic collection of designer wear strewn across my bed.

First, I attempted the Marie Kondo method—hold each item, assess its necessity, and ask if it sparks joy. Well, everything did. Every single shimmering fabric, every sleek blouse, and each pair of fabulous shoes. Oops.

"I'll just pack the basics," I mumbled, grabbing what I considered the bare minimum.

But when you're a style icon like Moi, 'basics' can be a bit… flexible. Needless to say, the 'essentials' pile grew bigger and bigger. With each failed attempt to close the suitcase, I started to question the laws of physics. How could five pairs of boots and a dozen dresses not fit in one tiny suitcase?

I tugged at zippers and even tried a little coaxing. "Come on, just a bit more," I encouraged, pressing down on the bulging lid.

Finally, after some vigorous shoving, jumping, and a few undignified moments of wrestling with the luggage, I emerged victorious! Five suitcases packed to the brim, each protesting with a faint bulge but miraculously sealed shut.

I stood back, "Ha! Take that," I declared to the inanimate object as if it could feel my victory.

With a confident smile and a flick of my hair, I looked down to find my phone.

As I stood there, reveling in my victory over the suitcases, a sudden realization hit me.

I glanced down at my hand, my heart sinking. There it was, the dreaded sight—a beautifully manicured nail, broken, and hanging on for dear life.

"No, no, no!" I gasped in horror, my voice pitching higher with each syllable.

I staggered back, clutching my hand as if it were the end of the world. "Not the nail, not today!"

With a shaky breath, I attempted to push the broken piece back into place, but alas, it was futile. The damage was done, and so was my composure.

"Hold it together, Scarlett," I muttered to myself, but the hysteria was already creeping in. I mean, how could I meet a bigshot CEO in the countryside, with a chipped nail?

I flung myself onto the bed, tears threatening to smudge my perfectly winged eyeliner. "This is a disaster! I can't go on like this!"

Sure, it was just a nail, but IT IS MY NAIL.

After a moment of sheer panic, with a deep breath and a steadier hand, I patched up the nail, the crisis averted, or so I hoped.

*Phone buzzing*

I glanced at the screen—Mom was calling. I took a deep breath and answered.

"Hey, Mom," I chirped, trying to sound casual.

"Scarlett, darling! How's the packing going? Are you all set for your trip?"

"Uh, yeah, Mom. All good," I replied, trying to sound nonchalant.

Just then, the sound of my barely-closed bedroom door being flung open erupted from the background. The next thing I realized was my furry four-legged furbabies rocketed into my bedroom. Then a muffled thump resonated through the phone, followed by a disgruntled squawk. Clearly, one of my furbabies had thrown a shoe on me, hitting my head (probably Coco, the little hellion). I winced but managed a forced laugh.

"Everything's under control… mostly." In the corner of my eyes, I saw them running outside my bedroom again.

I know they are grabbing my attention since it is my time for me to play with them—7:00 PM.

"Remember, dear, be careful there. Do you want some bodyguards? I could send you two—," My mother reminded me, her maternal instincts kicking in full force.

I rolled my eyes, even though she couldn't see. "No need, Mom. I don't need bodyguards. And what could possibly happen in Hicksville, right?"

"Well, you're right. Anyways, be careful honey. And keep me updated, alright?" Mom's tone softened, her worry for me evident even through the phone.

"Sure thing, Mom. Love you."

"I love you too, my daughter."

We exchanged a few more pleasantries before hanging up. Before sleeping, I made sure to play with my furbabies and tuck them to sleep before I got my nails pretty and done.