"You can dress a lie in Dior, darling. Doesn’t make it the truth."

~$~

The scent of acetone and overpriced flower oils greets my nasal holes. The salon glows warm with soft lights and marble finishes, but everything about this outing feels like a silent ambush.

I sit stiffly in a cream chair while a stylist files down my nails, and across from me, Adele crosses her legs with a lazy grace that makes her look like she owns the whole city block. Her red-tinted lips curl up like she’s barely holding in a joke.

“I thought it’d be nice for us to bond,” she says, stretching her arms above...