Gala Night

Kieran sat in front of the vanity, legs crossed automatically at the knees, the way Celeste had drilled into him over the last week. His back was straight—not from conscious effort, but from sheer repetition. Muscle memory now. Just like the way his wrist flicked when he applied the finishing touches of the liquid eyeliner, or how he blinked softly after brushing out his lashes, not wide-eyed and awkward like before.

Kieran leaned in close to the mirror, lips parted slightly as he applied the last bit of lip gloss—some sparkly pink thing Celeste had picked out and described as “just enough shimmer to flirt but not enough to blind.” Whatever that meant. His hand, surprisingly steady, glided the wand across his bottom lip, pressing them together and giving a quick “mwah” to make sure it was even. He blinked a few times, checking his mascara—long, fluttery lashes that didn’t look anything like his real ones. Celeste had even made him curl them, an act that still felt like a tiny medieval **** ritual.

He put the gloss down on the vanity and took a step back.

There she was.

Or rather—he was. In full Kiara mode.

The dress hugged him in a way that was still deeply strange. Velvet, dark like wine, off-the-shoulder with a slight dip at the neckline (not too low, because—well—cleavage was hard to fake). The shapewear underneath smoothed out everything that would’ve given him away, cinching his waist just enough to give the illusion of curves. His arms were bare except for the little shimmer of powder Celeste told to brush along his shoulders to give them some sort of glow.

His chest looked full thanks to the adhesive silicone inserts. Not real, of course, but surprisingly convincing unless someone was trying to motorboat him.

The earrings—big, shiny, and dangly—kept brushing against his neck with every slight move of his head. He hadn’t expected how annoying that would be.

He shifted his weight onto one heel—black, sparkly, maybe four inches? Five? They pushed his posture into that slightly arched, statuesque pose Celeste had drilled into him all week. His hair, curled and teased and sprayed into a smooth side-part, and it framed his face in waves. It didn’t look like him. None of it did. And yet, it sort of… worked?

He turned slightly side to side, eyeing himself in the full-length mirror. There were angles that really sold it. Others, less so, where he felt like a guy in a costume. But tonight, that didn’t matter. Tonight, it was just a job. A performance. Smile, wave, say thank you. Walk and talk. That was it.

Celeste and Vivienne had acted like it was going to be war, but in Kieran’s mind, it was just another room full of people he had to fool—and he already fooled the board, which was the hard part.

This? A cakewalk.

He walked out of the bedroom into the living room and found Celeste already standing there, arms crossed, watching the hallway like a fashion show runway. She was in leggings and a hoodie—off duty for the evening, clearly—but when her eyes landed on him, they lit up with an almost mischievous satisfaction.

“Damn,” she breathed, taking a slow step toward him. “That’s it. That’s her.” She adjusted a loose strand of hair by his cheek, brushing it gently back and tilting his chin up to catch the light better. “You actually look… kind of amazing.”

Kieran rolled his eyes. “Of course I do. I mean, duh. This is all overkill anyway. I signed the papers earlier, didn’t I? Tonight is just walking around like a doll.”

Celeste didn’t respond right away. She walked around him in a slow circle, tugging gently here and there—straightening the off-shoulder neckline just a little, smoothing the velvet along the hips. “It’s not about the walk, Kiki. It’s about the image. You are Euphorica’s next chapter. You are the product tonight.”

“Uh-huh.” Kieran shrugged, trying not to seem annoyed. “Product, icon, goddess. Got it.”

Celeste smirked. “And that means you’re going to pose for a few pictures first.”

“No way,” Kieran scoffed, instantly slipping back into his regular voice and tone. “Not doing that. Hell no.”

Celeste’s brow lifted as she slowly turned her head toward the hallway to their mother’s room, lips curled into a wicked little grin.

Kieran groaned, muttering under his breath, and then took a deep breath, forcing himself into Kiara-mode. His expression softened, his voice lifted with a melodic, feminine cadence.

“Oh my god, yes! Let’s do it!” he chirped, voice high and perky, before placing his hand on his hip in the most pageant-girl pose he could muster. Internally, he rolled his eyes.

Celeste snorted a laugh but kept snapping. “Turn your shoulders toward me a little—yes, and give me some soft pout. That’s it. Now hand on the thigh. Arch that back.”

Kieran twirled, pouted, posed, clicked his heels into place with practiced ease. The poses weren’t perfect—he still felt like an idiot doing them—but Celeste was clearly enjoying herself, and it made the minutes pass quicker. He kept smiling, adjusting, and doing his best imitation of confidence.

“God, you’re such a little doll now,” Celeste teased. “All that nonchalant stuff? Yeah, it’s cute. But you know what’s cuter?”

“What?” Kiara asked with faux-bubbly charm, tilting her head innocently.

Celeste winked. “Obedience.”

Kieran—no, Kiara—just smiled sweetly, batting his lashes.

And then the flash went off again.

The door to Vivienne’s room opened with that soft, sophisticated click, and in she walked like she owned the planet. Kieran glanced over and had to admit—even through the lens of his limited understanding of women’s fashion—his mom looked powerful. Her dress was sleek and fitted, something off-white or maybe cream (he couldn’t really tell). Her hair was styled to perfection, swept to the side in glossy, voluminous waves that framed her sharp cheekbones, and her makeup was red carpet flawless—classic, elegant, intimidating. He didn’t know if the material was silk, satin, or whatever the hell, but it shimmered every time she moved.

She looked like the kind of woman who belonged in boardrooms and billion-dollar negotiations. A **** of nature.

Vivienne’s eyes scanned the room once before landing squarely on him. “There she is. My daughter Kiara.” She smiled.

The words hit him a little weird. Daughter. It still didn’t sit right in his brain. It sounded like something stolen from someone else, not really his. But he was too deep into the Kiara illusion now to flinch. Instead, he stood up straighter and smiled, just like Celeste had drilled into him.

Vivienne approached, and to his surprise, pulled out her phone. “Come on, let’s get a few pictures together before we leave.”

Kieran turned toward her, and they took a few pictures—Vivienne posed perfectly for every shot while Kieran did his best approximation of what he thought Kiara would do. Soft hands, chin tilted just slightly, that trained smile Celeste kept threatening to tape onto his face.

He hated to admit it, but... they looked good together in those pictures. Powerful, poised. Convincing.

“Alright,” Celeste said when she handed their mother her phone. “Time for your last-minute briefing.”

Kieran groaned, flopping back onto the couch. His dress bunched slightly, and he had to sit up straighter again because shapewear did not forgive sloppy posture.

Vivienne crossed the room in a few elegant strides and took a seat opposite him, legs crossed so smoothly it looked choreographed. “You’ll be walking into a room full of media people, investors, and board members tonight. Everyone’s going to be looking at you. Every movement, every smile, every word you say.”

“Yeah, I got it. Smile, wave, act cute, don’t fall in the heels,” Kieran muttered, still with that smug smirk.

“You’ll also be introduced to several potential business partners,” Vivienne continued, unbothered by his flippant tone. “Some of them young men who are already quite... taken with Kiara Laurent. So if they flirt—”

“Guys,” he interrupted, his tone dropping from soft Kiara sweetness to something way more Kieran. “Relax. I got this. Just shut up already.”

Celeste gave a sharp inhale like she’d just witnessed a car crash. Vivienne’s head tilted slightly, and her jaw clenched.

“Young lady,” she said, voice low and loaded, “I will not tolerate that tone—not tonight, not ever. You are not some reckless teenage boy out with his friends. You are Kiara Laurent, the new CEO of Euphorica, and you will carry yourself with the class, poise, and dignity that demands.”

There was that phrase again—young lady. It still made something behind Kieran’s eyes twitch. But he knew better than to push further. Not now.

He swallowed and **** himself back into character, sitting straighter, smoothing the hem of his velvet dress down over his thighs, and softening his voice just enough to sound like Kiara. “Sorry, Mom. I didn’t mean to snap. I just… I’ve got it, okay? I’ll be perfect.”

Vivienne studied him a second longer before finally nodding.

“Good.”

With that, she stood. “The car’s waiting. Time to introduce the world to Kiara Laurent.”

Kieran rose from the couch, balancing on his heels with more practiced ease than he would’ve imagined a week ago. The weight of the shapewear clung to him, the press of the adhesive inserts on his chest a constant reminder of what he looked like. His hair framed his face just so, his lips a soft glossed pink, and his lashes gently fluttered as he blinked beneath their extra length.

He still thought Vivienne and Celeste were overdoing it. So what if he forgot to talk girlier or walk like he was on a runway sometimes? He’d aced the board meeting. He looked the part. He’d been pulling this off all week. The gala would be no different.

Easy.

He followed Vivienne out, the sound of his heels echoing across the marble floor, his dress swaying with every step. Celeste trailed behind them just far enough to avoid being caught on camera, but close enough to offer last-minute adjustments.

Kieran didn’t look back. Because no matter how much the name Kiara clung to him tonight—he still knew who he was underneath. This was just a performance.

And he always nailed performances.