Heyyyyy guys it's been a little while! The sad thing is, this chapter has been ready for weeks, I'm not sure why I didn't post it sooner.

Special thanks to my reviewers: Jcuret98, Artemis' hunters (x2), alexiaroosenhaan (x2), wolfofstark, and XOStarbrightXO. You guys mean the world to me, thank you so so much for sticking with me!

This is the next makeover chapter, featuring Pepper and Adriana (who you guys haven't met yet). Hope you all enjoy it!:)

…

Lady Pepper Hearst

All I know is that Zarcos Magazine has been preparing for this moment for a very long time. The amount of sponsorships we had received from designer labels to design pieces for the un-determined Selected girls in the past three months was insane, and it had left me with a three percent raise and lots more work to do. But as someone who has only seen the pre-steps of beautification and the final product in a magazine, this experience would still be brand new and entirely outside my comfort zone. Actually, everything about this experience so far has been outside of my comfort zone. I have actually had nightmares about having to live through standing in front of a crowd like the one at my sendoff, the flight was a disaster (it turns out, I get air sick), and I'd rather be hung than have to stumble through another airport full of yelling people. My mind still echoes their howls, like banshees screeching in my ear, or jaguars whose tails I had just stepped on.

And now, in front of a backdrop of matte sterling, as the rest of group five sits around me with gleaming smiles decorating their faces, I have to struggle not to cry as the camera crew yells at me.

"Miss Hearst, could you please smile wider?"

"Lady Pepper, your hair is fine. Please stop playing with it."

"Excuse me, is something wrong? Why does she look like she's dying?"

It's madness, in every sense of the word.

After the torture of pictures, I get to experience the torture of meeting countless new faces in the span of an hour's pointless makeover. Stress on pointless, considering no amount of beautician's practice could make me beautiful. Pointless. Joining this competition was pointless, being here is pointless, thinking I had any sort of a shot is pointless. My sisters had a fit when I was selected; they all really thought Sage would be chosen, or literally any other eligible girl in Kent that wasn't me. None of them would talk to me after the Report. Even my parents noticed the tension around the house, and they had been oblivious for almost eight years.

"Wonderful shots, thank you. Please take Lady Knight to five, Lady Hearst to station three, Lady Corbineau to twelve, and Lady Crimson to eight." The four of us were separated and carted off.

I'm met with almost immediately, and I figure out my stylist is a tall strawberry blond man with a faux-hawk, nose piercing, and a sleeve of tattoos on his left arm. It doesn't really reassure me.

"Hello, Lady Pepper! You're looking lovely today." The stylist sings, cracking his knuckles. He would never say that sincerely to a six if he wasn't forced to. Oh god, it's another person conspiring against me. He'll give me a dress that'll make me look fat! All my years of hard work, of juice cleansing and three-day fasts, will be brought down by one dress that'll make me the shame of the fashion industry. He could make the beautician in charge of my makeup make me look like a clown or use the wrong shade of foundation, or the one in charge of my hair cut seven inches off one side and a half on the other. He could put me in orange. I could loose my job at Zarcos if this gets bad press. One of their own: the laughing stock of Illéa. Everyone. Everyone I've ever met has wanted to conspire against me. Oh god oh dear god where are the pills? My pills to treat the insomnia! Genuinely, I think it was a bad idea for her to give me them, even if they did sometimes help me get eight hours to my usual two and a half. I haven't slept until six in the morning in years. But anyway, since I've gotten them, it has taken an incredible amount of self-restraint not to take one or two or all twenty-three at once. The stress of preparing for the Selection was one of the single worse three-week periods I have ever had to endure. And there have been plenty terrible three-week periods.

I mumble something about a thank you, without meeting my stylist's eyes. Liars, this world is composed of liars and no one else: everyone is a liar oh god.

"So, is there anything you're considering for your 'look'?" He asks me, crossing his arms.

"Uh..?"

"Well, we have lots of options. Arty, romantic, sophisticated, what do you think?"

"You- um, I- you mean I'm the one who- you're letting me choose?"

He laughs, bemused. "Well, duh."

"Um. Oh?"

"Uhhhh… yeah. You know, I could see you going for something really chic, you know? High fashion. Haven't I heard you work at one of those high-profile magazines? Zarcos, or Persona, or Emirian Vance?"

"Well, yeah." I mutter.

"Great, then you should be used to that kind of style by now. I mean, not everyone's comfortable with that kind of apparel, the stuff that you'd see in Vogue or Zarcos… But you work in the fashion industry, which, may I say, not everyone can do either, so you'd probably feel more comfortable in something of that caliber than you would be in pajamas. You're hot, you're thin… we could go with lots of embellishments or intricacy… What do you think?"

"That-" The words get caught in my throat and I have to swallow, flustered tears nearing my eyes in embarrassment. "Yeah, that sounds good." Better than good, actually. My stylist thought I was good enough to wear things like I see the models wear in Zarcos: their slim bodies and sculpted hip bones protruding, and wild eyes alive and bright. There's two possibilities as to what's going on with him: he's flattering me so that I can confidently get dressed up as an idiot, or someone at the magazine payed him. I decide to find out.

The first thing that happened was I was brought to take a bath, where I was washed with body wash specifically catered to my skin type. Before, at home, I just had generic bar soap that gave my skin rashes if I went into grass after using it. Here, I'm lathered and washed in total luxury. I dry off quickly and then I'm smothered in soft smelling white lotion from head to toe, leaving my skin whole and bright. I slip into a charcoal satin silk robe while they sit me in a plush armchair to do my nails. I'm buffed and trimmed, and my cuticles are fixed before my nails are coated in matte polish in the shade "Snowy". Both coats dry quickly, and my eyebrows are plucked for strays.

Next, my hair is washed and conditioned (washed and conditioned! Not that terrible two-in-one stuff that I can afford, that leaves my hair dull and hard to brush), then blown out. I instruct them specifically to cut nothing, as I just trimmed my hair at home less than a week ago, and I don't want layers or bangs or anything, and though it shines in a way it never has, there's no false coloration or highlights. The stylist doing my hair puts it up in a loose updo, with blonde locks falling around my face, which is promptly brought to another station to be covered in makeup. In the next half an hour, I'm left sporting foundation (with contour), eyeliner, mascara, pink-nude matte lips, some light eye shadow, and eyebrow pencil. My cheekbones look sharper and my skin is smoother and more even-toned. My eyebrows are full and sharp, and my eyes (currently a nice, warm brown color, as they're outlined in "Umber") are bright and feminine. I feel flawless and reborn: beautiful for the first time. It's a marvel to see, but it's so hard not to pick at myself. I mean, it's someone else's work, and it looks perfect… but it's on me. Oh-oh god.

In a hollow-shell, I wander aimlessly to the next station, to pick out my dress. I can't hear what anyone else is saying, because I feel trapped underwater. Air has left my lungs and I feel like suffocating. I may be beautiful, I may be where I've dreamed of being, but I feels like I'm drowning and suffering more than I've ever felt before. I feel dirty and impure, and poison writhes through my veins. Not enough air; not enough air…

But I'm resurfaced when I the mention of the magazine.

"Wait-um, pardon?" I cough. "Sorry, could you, um, tell me that again?"

"Sure!" The attendant chirps. "Zarcos set up an endorsement program, they said you'd agreed to it already." Ok, so I vaguely remember that, but it was the Monday after the Selection was announced and my mind was still spinning. I hadn't gotten my medication yet, so I had slept for just less than three hours, my sisters (though none of them would fess up to it) cut up almost all of my clothes (with a note bearing a 'congratulations' and an assumption that I 'wouldn't need any of my old wardrobe anymore') and I had to spend almost four hours sewing enough garments back together for two complete outfits, and just that morning I found a messy stich in the azure cotton romper I was wearing. On top of that, I almost fell on the ground when, the second the door to the office was open, I was greeted with greedy smiles and deafening cheering, and was given a surprise gift of a nice pair of drop pearl earrings (by far the nicest gift I've ever received, though I was definitely skeptic at first). And I assumed that, when my supervisor called me into her office, I'd be fired. But actually it was just what this attendant had just said, and she wanted to ask me if it was ok to let the endorsements fall on me. And when the boss asks you a question, you say yes, even though I wasn't quite sure what she was even saying. "Brands have been submitting dresses and ensembles and you've got several examples here. A few are Ellie Saab, you've got Ophelia Taylor and Zamantha Karp, and Browne Brynnie. Want to take a look? They're all over on this rack over here; you've got many options for endorsement. The rest of the process will be explained to you later."

"Oh-um, sure." The attendant takes my arm and leads me to a double-sided gold dress rack, holding at least a week's worth of dresses. I recognize every designer I see by name, and I've seen several of these dresses in the magazine. I'm floored.

I select a strapless nude bodycon with intricate white lace designs, which hugs my waist and I've never felt more proud. I've worked hard, since I was twelve, to maintain my weight, usually by eating squeaky clean (when I do at all), and taking vigorous walks whenever I can (although that's rather rare). Short people can look chubbier than tall people by having the exact same build and weight, because their bodies aren't as stretched out, and I've known this forever. At five feet four inches, I could definitely be shorter, sure, but I've never been tall enough to be a model or the metabolism to eat at every meal. And after six years of hard work and self-discipline, yes, you can see my rib cage and hipbones when I stand up, and finally my arms are thin and my thighs don't even come close to touching, but clearly I've still maintained a curve. And in this dress, I feel proud: everything I've worked for has been payed off in a single outfit. I feel high and my head goes light.

My legs look even more toned in white strappy high heels (about 4 inches, which I've had some practice walking in so that I never looked like a fool, should the opportunity come up) and a gold necklace with a diamond charm and then another drop of gold chain and a flat pearl. Peaking out of my hair is a pair of intricate gold earrings with a flat pearl attached to the tips as drops, almost similar to the ones I got as a gift from my coworkers. Standing in the mirror, I can't help but feel untouchable and flawless, and it's an incredible feeling. I wish I could feel exactly like this every second of every minute of every hour of every day.

When it's time to pick out my signature scent, I choose a translucent charcoal bottle with a cream label and antique-finish, called Black Orchid. It starts with top notes of French jasmine, black truffle, ylang-ylang, black currant and effervescent citrus with a middle of black orchid, and a base that combines woodsy notes of patchouli and sandalwood, dark chocolate, incense, amber, vetiver, vanilla and balsam. It smells like how jewelry looks, or how fashion stirs something inside me. A dab is added to my key points and suddenly I radiate glamor. When it's time to take the ever-dreaded After-Shot, I'm not even fazed. This is the first timeI've smiled genuinely in a photo in years.I actually allow the photographers to take a few shots before I bounce up from the backdrop and into the wandering gaze of a crew of three.

The cameraman is older, with spiky blonde hair arranged in a style that reminds me of my stylist's from earlier, and the spokeswoman is a middle-aged roughly New Asian woman. I can't see the face of the person holding the mic, because their hat covers most of their face, but they're about average height. They corner me quickly, but I'm too high to notice.

"Lady Pepper, would you mind if we interview you?"

"Um, sure!" I offer a smile as the cameraman signals that we're on.

"Lady Pepper, what exactly happened during your makeover?"

"Wow, well, the first thing that happened was that I took a proper bath. My family never had enough money for fancy soaps or individual conditioner, so that in itself was luxurious, not to mention this incredible palace I have the privilege of staying in, and I haven't even seen my room yet! Overall, this experience has been incredible! My toes and nails were painted in white lacquer, in the shade "Snowy", my eyebrows were plucked, then my hair was blown out but not cut or highlighted, then put up into this updo that looks really nice, my stylist did a really great job. For makeup, a stylist applied foundation, bronzer, eyeliner, mascara, pink-nude matte lips, some light white eye shadow, and eyebrow pencil. As for who I'm wearing, my dress is Ford Teagaile and my shoes are Steve Madden." I recount vividly.

"And as for your perfume?" The spokeswoman inquires. "You smell quite captivating."

"Well, the one thing I forgot! My perfume is Black Orchid by Rue 37." I give a smile. "Oh, and thank you."

The spokeswoman smiles back. "Of course. By the way you were able to describe your beautification process, you seem really knowledgeable about the fashion world. Did your job have anything to do with something in that arena?"

"Actually, yes, thanks for asking! Before I was a Selected girl, I was the receptionist and secretary for Zarcos Fashion Magazine, based in my home province Kent. I've always loved fashion, and I figured that being a secretary and learning things from the great designers at an elite magazine was better than being a seamstress at my city's small Laundromat for repair. I did, originally, but eventually decided that I would never have the option to move up and I wasn't satisfied in the slightest. So, I researched a lot in looking for other opportunities for a six to get into the fashion business and found a secretarial position at one of the top magazines in my province. I fought for two months and several interviews and beat out almost a hundred other girls to get the position I have. It's really a job I love and I liked absorbing everything that I could about the fashion world. Thanks for noticing, actually! I'm really passionate about things like that."

"Yes, we can tell. Quite admirable, not everyone finds that one thing they're passionate about and you clearly have found it." The spokeswoman laughs. "It was very nice to meet you, Lady Pepper, that was about all we needed." The cameraman relaxes his shoulder and the entire crew walks away before I can say thanks or goodbye. I'm feeling good about that interview, actually. Feeling good. Really feeling good about this whole thing so far.

I walk away, face gleaming and a new future glistening ahead.

…

Lady Adriana Foster

In a nutshell, my maids think my hair has to go. Or, I mean, my stylists. Apparently I'd meet my maids later, sometimes after the makeover process is over, but I was having trouble with the distinction so far. Surprisingly enough, that was one of the most confusing things so far in the Selection. Everything else had been somewhat straightforward, or at least I thought so. And anyway, after my bath and whatever, they decided that my hair was basically awful. The stylist couldn't drive a brush through it, for one, which was just as annoying as it was painful, and they couldn't stop gossiping (as if I wasn't sitting right there or didn't have ears) about how it was too frizzy. They fixed it, of course, because that's what these makeovers are for, by doing some deep-conditioning-softening thing, and uncharged the frizz, and added some highlights to make it shinier. They twist the front parts back and let the rest of my hair fall down my back, which is kind of fancy, but looks really nice. Actually, now my auburn curls look considerably prettier, fixing up my entire look. My foster mother, Janet, did always say that I could be attractive if I put any effort into my appearance (which I pretty much disregarded), but I guess she was sort of right. The stylists plucked and died my eyebrows (because they were these pale-overgrown-invisible ugly things), and painted my nails and toes a classic crimson (after spending a considerable amount of time taking the dirt out of the white parts of my nails, from working on the ranch). My face is made up with all sorts of products that I don't even know the name of, and I'm met with by stylists that I don't know the names of, and basically I haven't bothered learning the names of, like, anything and I feel a little guilty.

I also feel guilty that I basically wouldn't talk to my original stylist. He seemed a bit snide, asking me what about myself I thought needed improvement, and what kind of an image I wanted, which was confusing and when I tried to ask questions he was totally condescending so maybe I don't feel so guilty after all. Most other people at the palace, though, have been more than kind. It's like I'm the Official Princess or something, even though I don't even know what my title is now. People have been calling me "Lady Adriana" for the past three weeks or so, but I'm not sure exactly what that means. Does that give me some sort of a royal status? Or is it just to say that I'm part of the Selection, to set me apart from the other "common girls"? Janet, who was the primary educator of Cooper, Evan (her two biological sons) and I, taught me some on the hierarchy of titles, and Lady had never been one of them, so either she didn't know or the title really isn't important. Or both, maybe.

Though that condescending stylist put up a pretty good fight, I got to pull the Selected Card and overruled his plea to play down my ginger-hair and give me a girl-next-door look, which I wasn't really in the mood for. The rack of dresses, he told me, were already set out (but I'd get to pick), and this would just make things more difficult for my other stylists. I think that was something of a last ditch attempt, because it was followed by an eyebrow raise and a shrug of the shoulders. Cooper makes that face a lot, actually, and it's an expression I'm familiar with. It means that he's trying to guilt me into something after running out of options. So I told the stylist what I usually tell Cooper: bite me.

After the rest of the process, I stride over to my rack of dresses. Leafing through them, I find that the majority of the dresses look maybe a bit… petite, for my tastes. And by petite I mean… skimpy. Or at least, if I was wearing any of those ensembles I'd look skimpy…

"Excuse me," I call to the attendant, "why do all of these dresses look so… small?"

She cocks her head to the side, causing her auburn hair to fall partially from her black directors cap. "Well, you're not Miss Emberly Saffron."

"Well… no, I'm not."

"Well these are her dresses, miss." She tells me, then points behind my shoulder on the right. "I think yours are over in that direction, Lady Foster."

"Oh, alright. Thank you." I push a ginger curl behind my ear. Yikes. Why on earth is Emberly so tiny…

Once directed to my own rack of dresses (I triple check to make sure) I begin my search. A few are vintage, with lace and brass finishings, some have the girl-next-door feel in light pink and mint and those other girly colors, and then there's a few black ones that are more edgy, obviously meant to be paired with ear spikes and stilettos. Eventually, I pick a rather girly number, with a crimson flowy skirt and a cream lace bodice. A stylist pairs it with white flowered flats (because trying to walk in heels would be just a nightmare) and a white opal and gold bracelet, and I finally see what Janet was talking about. Maybe wearing those dresses she's always wanted me to won't be so terrible. Maybe I can be pretty. Maybe this entire experience wont be as end-of-the-world as I imagined it to be when I was forced into it.

After just a bit of searching in finding my signature scent, my wrists and neck are spritzed and sprayed. My perfume called Be Free, the one shot and "freedom" while I'm at the palace. The perfume has notes of lemongrass, neroli, jasmine, ginger, fire wood, clove, black pepper, sandalwood, oud and orris root. It opens with a woodsy feel, the oud has an almost incense quality, maybe because it's blended with the cloves and pepper or some other smell like that. The lemongrass gives it a bit of zing and freshness, making me feel bright and clean. It's like the topper on the cake.

In a few snapshot seconds, my After Picture is taken and I'm whisked away, but not before being called over to be interviewed by an all-male team.

I fix my hair and bound over with a smile. "Hey!" I greet merrily. "You guys wanted to interview me, right? Or at least that's what I thought the other girls were doing."

"Yeah," the camera guy nods, fiddling with buttons on his machine. "Is that ok?"

"Yeah, sure. That sounds fine."

"Alright." He presses another button and makes a signal that we're rolling, so the more sharply dressed man in a navy blazer turns on his mic and starts to ask his questions.

"Lady Adriana, why don't you tell us a brief summary of your makeover."

"Alright, well, first I was washed and lathered, then washed and conditioned, and then washed of any facial flaws…" The interviewer smirks at my attempt at some sort of humor. "No, there was a lot of work done to my hair, though. I got some highlights put in and they fixed it for frizz. I've always hated my curls, but I think they look a lot better now."

"Yes, your hair is very pretty, Lady Adriana." The interviewer says. "Who are you wearing?"

"Well, my perfume is called Be Free, and my dress is… I don't know, actually." The crew chuckles.

"How has the royal experience so far compared to your life back at home?"

"Well, I can certainly say that it's so incredibly different. I got bounced around from home to home for a little while, when I was younger, so I've experienced a lot of different environments, but I'm been living on a farm since I was twelve years old, and it's been totally weird not having to live with the smell of mulch all day. The palace is so clean and fancy, I absolutely love it here. And I mean, I've only been here for a few hours now, but I cant imagine getting used to this place."

The crew smiles and the camera man loosens up. "Thanks, Miss Foster," he says, "that was all we needed. Have a good one."

I smile and wave as they walk away. "Yeah, you too!" Taking just a moment to regain focus, I notice the clump of girls by a clump of couches, lost a bit in conversation. I take a deep breath and join them; excitement coursing through my veins and a nervous anticipation keeping my mind as grounded as can be expected. I wasn't planning on liking this experience at all, it was Janet who had begged me for days, but I always admit to being wrong when I think that I am. And actually, I think that I just might be.

Well, there you go! Next chapter, you have the first Selection dinner and a Report as well. It's probably the longest thing I've written so far in this story. But after that, there's interviews! Hope you're all excited!

Please remember to review! Your feedback means literally so much to me, you guys! Love you all!:)

xx. Scarlett