EMBER’S POV

The stylist team moves like a precision strike squad. In less than five seconds, my plate is cleared, a measuring tape is around my waist, and I’m in the grip of Simone, who radiates such withering beta energy I think even Knox would hesitate to cross her.

“Don’t slouch,” Simone snaps, fingers already in my hair. “Posture makes the woman.”

I stand at rigid attention while another woman circles me, jotting numbers. Two men focus on the rolling racks, pulling out garment bags with reverence.

Knox fires off emails on his phone, then heads to the balcony with his coffee, leaving me to the professionals.

“Can we acknowledge...