[Cire's apartment] [8 am]

  Cire Guinness stood in the middle of her room like a sleep-deprived hurricane survivor. The floor looked like a crime scene of haute couture and fashion carnage. Dresses, bras, panties, shoes, earrings, and five different bottles of perfume y scattered like they'd been hurled in a fit of desperation. Which they had.

  She was wearing one heel. Just one.

  "No. No. I can't wear this," she muttered, yanking a vender mini-dress off her body with the speed of a street magician having a panic attack. "I look like I'm auditioning to be the Runaway Moms on a CW reboot."

  She threw the dress onto the growing mountain on her bed and stared at herself in the mirror. Currently? A hot mess. Hair half-curled, fake shes on one eye, no pants, perfectly trimmed pussy. She looked like a gmorous pirate who lost a fight with her own closet.

  "This is a disaster," she said out loud. "I'm going to ruin my chance before I even get in front of the camera."

  Then she paused.

  Took a breath.

  And screamed into a sequin top: "MAX!" (Max and Caroline are her only friends. With Caroline on vacation, Max was her only option.)

  No answer.

  Of course not.

  Max wasn't psychic.

  Cire dropped to the floor, fished her phone out from under a ce bralette, and called. The moment Max picked up, Cire shouted without preamble:

  "I'm falling apart and I'm going to get fired from a job I haven't even started."

  Max, chewing something loud and crunchy, responded with a deadpan, "Hi to you too. What's the emergency this time?"

  "I don't know what to wear! Nothing looks right. Everything makes me look like I'm trying too hard or not trying enough or trying in a weird direction like... editorial dominatrix meets funeral Barbie!"

  Max paused. "Cire. What time's the shoot?"

  "Noon. Rachel said to be there by 11:30. But I have nothing. I've tried on seventeen outfits and now I can't feel my left boob because of that evil shapewear."

  "Okay, okay. Calm down. Have you eaten?"

  Cire blinked at the phone. "Max. I haven't even put on matching shoes. What do you think?"

  "Yup. You're spiraling. I'm bringing donuts and scissors. Be there in five." (Cire moved to the top floor of Max & Caroline's apartment. She used the money she was saving for her wedding. Well, she bought a couple of other things. We'll come to that ter.)

  Cire didn't ask about the scissors. She didn't want to know.

  Soon...

  The doorbell rang like it was trying to warn the building. Cire limped to it, trailing a sequin belt in one hand and a mascara wand in the other. She peeked through the syphole and then opened the door in slow motion.

  Max stood there in oversized sungsses, holding a box of donuts in one hand and a rge pair of craft scissors in the other like some chaotic fairy godmother. (No idea why, she was wearing sungsses inside)

  Cire's hair was curled on one side, tangled on the other. Her bra was doing a one-boob-out tribute to 2000s wardrobe malfunctions. She had on a single glittery stiletto and what looked like a ripped thong wrapped halfway around her wrist like a sweaty victory band. She blinked.

  Max didn't move.

  She just stared.

  Then nodded. "Right. We're in level-five meltdown territory."

  She entered and back kicked the door shut.

  Cire stepped aside and filed one hand toward the mess. "Save me. Before I cancel this gig and just become a nudist with a perfume hobby."

  Max walked in like she'd been summoned by dark magic. She handed Cire a donut. "Eat this before you eat drywall. Your blood sugar's at war with your common sense."

  Cire took a bite like she was auditioning for a donut commercial and a cry-for-help infomercial at the same time.

  Max scanned the room. "You've got bras on mps. Why are there bras on mps?"

  "They were too aggressive."

  "That one's got sequins. It looks like it could cut gss."

  "It did. My nipple's still mad."

  Max sighed, dropped the scissors on the bed, and cpped her hands. "Okay. Time to triage this hot-blonde breakdown."

  Cire flopped onto the edge of her bed. "I wanted to look effortless. Like, 'Oops, I just accidentally got cast in a global fragrance campaign.' Not like I strangled Barbie and stole her wardrobe."

  Max raised an eyebrow. "You're blonde, gorgeous, and stacked. This is salvageable. Just shut up and let me do what I do."

  "Your 'doing' involves scissors and zero concern for emotional stability."

  "Exactly."

  A few minutes ter...

  Max had already dug out three dresses, a hairbrush, two questionable eyebrow pencils, and what appeared to be a bottle of body shimmer beled Glow Like A Bitch?.

  Cire stood in front of the mirror, arms out, like she was about to be knighted or sacrificed.

  Max squinted. "Okay. Step one. Your face looks like a half-baked Instagram filter. We're fixing that. Sit."

  Cire colpsed onto the vanity stool.

  Max went to work. She wiped off the excess foundation, evened out the eyeliner, and repced the one tragic eyesh with a fresh pair.

  "You're poking my eye."

  "I'm poking your insecurity in the eye. Big difference."

  Cire grumbled with her mouth full of donut.

  [8:22 AM]

  Max stood back, chewing thoughtfully on her lip. Then she tossed a bck dress at Cire.

  "This."

  Cire held it up. "This is like… a sexy coffin."

  "Exactly. It's structured and new, and it makes your waist look awesome. It pairs perfectly with confidence and heels."

  Cire hesitated. "But I was thinking about color..."

  Max pointed a donut hole at her like a wand. "No. You're a vision of icy, sensual elegance. You need to be sexy and hot. Make those guys there melt in your presence. Wow! That came out nicely."

  Cire changed.

  The dress was a perfect fit.

  [8:50 AM]

  Hair was curled, but in a loose, expensive, I-woke-up-te-in-Cannes kind of way. Lips: red. Heels: bck, pointy, ankle-breaking. Jewelry: minimal. Attitude: legally armed.

  Cire blinked at her reflection. "Holy crap."

  Max leaned on the vanity. "Yeah. Now you look like the kind of woman who could sell perfume and punch an ex in the face during a Vogue interview."

  Cire did a spin. "I feel… terrifying."

  "Good. That's how you know it's working."

  She paused. "You really think I can do this? The shoot? The... being a thing?"

  Max raised a brow. "You dated a man who had a motorcycle named Brenda and wore fingerless gloves unironically. Then you survived getting cheated on by your fiancé just before the wedding. If you can survive that, you can survive being a model."

  Cire ughed, exhaling. "I seriously owe you."

  Max shrugged. "I take payment in gossip, private jet rides, and possibly one of your future fragrance endorsement checks."

  Cire threw her arms around Max. "You're the best fake stylist a girl could panic-call."

  "I prefer 'emergency gm technician,'" Max said, patting her on the back.

  [9:15]

  Cire stood by the door, radiant and terrifying in the best way. Double check on everything, done.

  Max handed her the perfume bottle from her nightstand. "Now go. Smell expensive. Walk like you broke up with someone just to remind them what they lost."

  Cire grinned as she walked toward the door. "I'm gonna destroy that photoshoot."

  Max gave her a thumbs-up. "Make them beg, baby."

  "Thank you, Max. Can you lock up? I don't want to be te."

  "No worries. Max at your service."

  The door smmed behind Cire.

  Max looked around at the wrecked apartment, sighed, and picked up another donut.

  She bit into it and said out loud, "Yep. She's gonna be famous. And I want a cut."

  [9:15 and 10 Seconds]

  The door burst open like a SWAT team was raiding the room.

  Cire flew back inside, heels ccking, eyes wild.

  "I can't do this, Max!" she cried, halfway tripping over her own fabulousness. "I think I peed a little and I definitely need to pee!"

  She vanished into the bathroom in a blur of perfume and panic.

  Max, still holding her donut, didn't flinch. She took a slow bite and stared at the door. "T-minus ten seconds. New record."

  Cire returned a minute ter, dabbing her hands on a towel and pacing like she was about to deliver a TED Talk on anxiety and existential dread.

  "I'm gonna vomit. I need a tranquilizer. Or tequi. Or a punch in the face. Whichever works faster."

  Max calmly stood, walked over, and grabbed Cire by the shoulders. "You're fine."

  "I am not fine! I feel like my soul is wearing Spanx."

  Max nodded. "Sounds like showbiz to me."

  Cire filed. "What if I fall during the walk? What if I sneeze and my sh flies off and hits someone in the eye? What if I forget how to pose and just start dabbing like it's 2001? By the way, where can I buy some adult diapers?"

  Max stood in front of Cire, arms crossed, face as neutral as someone fighting the urge to ugh at a falling chandelier.

  "Diapers?" she asked. "Seriously?"

  Cire clutched her purse like a stress ball. "I'm going to stress-pee, Max. Stress-pee is real. And if it doesn't happen, I'm still going to wish I had at least one Ruffie to knock me out before I start screaming like a busted fire hydrant."

  Max sighed, shaking her head. "Alright, psycho Barbie. I'm coming with you."

  Cire blinked. "Wait. Really?"

  "Yes. Because I know if I don't, you're going to text me from the Titan Studios lobby saying, 'Tell them I died in a tragic ft iron accident and couldn't make it.'"

  Cire looked at her with relief so dramatic it almost needed a musical score. "You're a goddess. Max. A lifesaver."

  "Don't get sentimental. I'm mostly going for the food and the possibility of seeing someone cry under a ring light."

  Cire took Max's hands and looked into her eyes with a relieved smile. "Max, if I survive this, I'm naming my first perfume after you. The Goddess' tears, or something like Maxine's Secrets."

  "Uumm... You do know, you don't own the brand."

  "Yeah. But I can beg Alex to name it after you."

  ...

  [Titan HQ – Max's Suite | 1:15 PM]

  Max y sprawled across a king-sized bed that could've easily housed four average humans and one egotistical golden retriever. She was cocooned in a fluffy white robe, one leg dangling off the side, her face sticky with smug satisfaction.

  On the nightstand? Seven empty mocktail gsses. Next to that? A towering, legally questionable pile of Snickers wrappers.

  A fruit ptter with mostly mangoes and berries sat half-finished by her elbow, and someone (probably one of Alex's poor over-trained assistants) had delivered an entire stack of vintage comics at her request. She was currently flipping through a limited edition X-Men run, one hand inside a bowl of grapes, the other zily turning the page.

  The only sound in the room was her satisfied chewing.

  "God, I love it here," she mumbled to herself, popping another grape into her mouth. "I should write a book called How To Panic-Proof A Supermodel In Under Thirty Minutes. Bestseller. New York Times. Oprah's Book Club. Maybe a Netflix deal. Who knows."

  Max stood abruptly on the bed like she'd just been struck by lightning. The robe swished dramatically around her legs. She held up the comic with one hand and a half-eaten mango slice in the other like it was some kind of sacred artifact.

  She looked at the door first. 'Good, locked.'

  She took a deep breath.

  Then, with full Shakespearean intensity, she decred,

  "CHARLES! You naive little man. You dream of co-existence while I dream of mangoes and VENGEANCE."

  She spun once, the robe fluttering like a cape in a low-budget cospy shoot.

  Then, deepening her voice into gravelly professor mode, she pointed to the closet like it was a war zone. "Eric, listen to reason! We must unite our powers and our snack resources, if we're to survive the coming chaos!"

  Max flipped her hair and switched back to Magneto.

  "Never! I offered you half my fries, and you ate them all and DENIED ME my half fries. We are not the same, Charles. I am HUNGRY. I am POWER."

  She dramatically reached down and picked up a Snickers wrapper.

  "This? This is my mutant fuel. This is evolution in foil!"

  Then she threw it to the floor like she was banishing it to comic book hell.

  She bent her knees, crouched as if ready to fly despite being on a memory foam bed, and spread her arms wide. "NOW, I ASCEND!"

  She unched into the air with exactly two inches of vertical lift and promptly bounced sideways, tumbling down the bed like a drunken Storm on rollerbdes.

  Lying face-down in the pillows, she mumbled, "Storm would be so disappointed in me right now."

  But that didn't stop her.

  She pushed herself up again, now using a grape as a prop.

  "Scott! Logan! Why are you always so tense! I say we sit down, talk this out, and by talk I mean drink six margaritas and emotionally overshare until someone cries and admits they miss Jean."

  She tossed the grape into her mouth, missed, and it hit her square in the eye.

  "Oh my God! I've been attacked by fruit. This is how it ends."

  She flopped backward, arms spread like she'd just been emotionally sin.

  "Tell the world… Max tried to save the X-Men. And snacks. She failed at both."

  A knock came at the door.

  Max froze.

  "Hey, Max. You alright in there?" Rachel's voice came from outside.

  "Yeah, all good here. No worries. No one pying X-Men parody in here. I mean, yeah, all good," Max quickly babbled out.

  "Cire's audition is over. It went well. So, you want me to send her here?" Rachel asked.

  "No, no, no... Other than Alex and me, no one is welcome here. There are some private things in here. Anyway, I'll meet her in the lobby. Just tell her to wait a bit," Max said as she quickly took off her robe and began to dress up.

  ---

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