Not at first.

The drive to the Vanity Fair headquarters was nerve-wracking. As she entered the suburbs where the office was located, Winona became painfully aware of how exposed she felt. The denim chafed against her bare skin, and every time she shifted, she was reminded of just how little she was wearing. Worse, every stoplight felt like an eternity as she imagined the drivers next to her glancing over and noticing just how unprepared she looked for a high-profile photoshoot.

Finally, she reached the building and pulled into the underground parking garage, heart pounding. She found a spot on the bottom level, as far from the elevator entrance as possible. If she could just avoid running into anyone until she made it inside, maybe—maybe—she could salvage some dignity.

She grabbed her bag, took a deep breath, and exited the car. Rather than heading for the main entrance, she beelined for the side door, keeping her head down. The fewer people she ran into, the better.

Winona pushed inside and exhaled sharply. Made it. An hour late, but at least she was here. Now, all she had to do was survive the rest of the day.

The moment she stepped into the studio, a tall, wiry man with a frazzled demeanor turned sharply toward her.

"Finally!" he exclaimed, throwing up his hands. "Do you have any idea how behind schedule we are?"

Winona winced. "Yeah, I—"

"No time! Just get in the dressing room and get changed. We're already scrambling here."

"But I—"

"No buts! Dressing room! Now!" He spun away, barking instructions at his assistants.

Winona sighed. Of course. No one ever wanted to hear the reason, just the results. With a resigned shake of her head, she made her way to the dressing room.

Inside, a neatly arranged wardrobe was waiting for her. She let out a breath of relief—finally, real clothes. Without hesitation, she unhooked the straps of her overalls and let them drop to the floor, stepping out of them completely. The cool air sent a shiver down her spine as she stood bare in the dressing room, feeling an odd mix of vulnerability and liberation. She took a quick glance at the mirror, suppressing the absurd thought that this might be the most ironically prepared she’d felt all morning.

Turning her attention back to the outfit, she grabbed the first piece of clothing from the rack—a silky blouse. As she slipped it over her shoulders, the fabric glided against her skin, a stark contrast to the rough denim she had just shed. She quickly pulled on the accompanying skirt, sighing in relief as she finally felt somewhat put together. Just as she fastened the last button, a knock sounded at the door.

"Winona! Hurry up! We need you on set!"

She took one last glance at herself in the mirror and rolled her eyes. "Showbiz," she muttered before stepping out, ready—at least outwardly—to face the chaos.

Note: This chapter was written with the help of ChatGPT.