I draw away because Blake said nothing about this. I’m not going. Brad puts his hands on his hips again and tsks at me. This steels my resolve to not go, as Blake will not parade me about as arm candy.
“You will go.” He turns back around. He calls over his shoulder, “And I know what you did to that dress. I picked it out, you know. I am deeply offended.”
He doesn’t sound offended, and despite my circumstances and my wanting to end my time here, I feel bad about what I did. I was making a statement. I flush a bit but hold silent. My actions last night were because I was living dangerously and recklessly. I wasn’t thinking of anything other than that. And Brad has excellent taste. My closet is proof of it, even if the wedding dress didn’t already speak of it.
“I’m sorry,” I mumble. And I’m a little dismayed to find out that I am. I owe this place nothing—I owe Blake nothing. I need to remember that.
“It’s already Last Season, sweetie. Well,” he turns with his hands on his hips, “it will be in a few weeks. It’s the height of fashion right now. Was.” He frowns and turns back around to face my cocktail dresses.
I hear a distressed noise from him. “What’s wrong?”
“Maybe we should go shopping.” He doesn’t turn around and makes that tsk noise again. “There’s a function Friday night, and he’ll want you there as well.”
“Excuse me?” I don’t plan on being alive then.
Brad faces me again. “A fundraiser. Blake has his own wing at a hospital. He raises money for the hospital once a year. This Friday is the big day! Oh! You’ll need a gown. Everyone will be wearing one. Women, that is.”
I watch him turn back around and feel my perfectly planned demise slipping away from me. I don’t want to go to dinners and parties and fundraisers. I’m going to need to push Blake a little harder.
“Let’s go shopping!” Brad exclaims, spinning back around.
My gaze swings to my window, and it hits me. I know what Blake is. “But it’s—really sunny out today,” I say lamely. While I had sort of figured it out, warring with myself and telling myself I was crazy to even think that, it hits me now. My heart seems to stop, and then it beats fast. My eyes meet Brad’s.
He considers me for a moment. “Is there any better time?”
I shrug a bit, looking him over as he studies me. He doesn’t seem to be concerned, and since I have nothing else planned, I agree. At least on day one, in my new nightmare, I won’t be bored.
WE END UP AT THE SAME boutique where Blake picked out the lovely suit dress from. At least Brad didn’t toss that one on the floor earlier. The Limo pulls right in front of the store and the back door lines up with the long awning that extends to the edge of the sidewalk. I hold my breath as Brad exits, standing under the canopy’s shade, waiting for me. Then, he leads the way inside and tells the assistants who he is and who he works for. Suddenly the assistants are all about catering to us, but he waves them off once they have brought out the cocktail dresses and ball gowns on roll-away racks. One assistant busies herself nearby to be available should we need her, but all others give us space. I glance over my shoulder, wondering if they recognize me from the other night. They ignore me.
A small, circular stage with two steps in front of four mirrors to show my front, back, and sides sits off to the side where the changing rooms are. I don’t remember seeing this the other night. But then, I was rather upset. A few feet from the stage is a plush settee, where Brad sits as I flip through the hangers. I take out a funny light tangerine-colored dress and make a face at Brad. He shakes his head, and the nearby assistant takes it from me to hide it—or maybe destroy it. I pick out cocktail dresses and hold them up for Brad to look at. After about a hundred of them, Brad finally grins at me, and I go with that one. It’s black, has lace, three-quarter sleeves, and a flirty skirt that reaches my knees. The assistant whisks it away, and I turn to the ball gowns.
Despite me wanting to think of my impending disappearance, being with Brad is fun, and soon we have an easy rapport, as if we’ve been friends for years. I take a ballgown and disappear into the changing room. I shift and twist and jump into it and notice I can’t breathe—and it’s not even zipped yet. I walk like a robot out of the changing room and hop up the stairs to the stage.
The dress is tight, and I make a face as I shift in it, trying to breathe. Behind me, Brad has a finger on his chin, his lips, his cheek, and a myriad of faces and body poses to accompany the gestures as he studies me. He does this for each dress I try on. We finally narrow the choices down to three ball gowns; a red one, a deep blue one, and a black one.
“I like them all on you,” he tells me.
The assistants nod their heads in agreement. Yes, they all look good on me. Now, I have to decide on the color. All three give me the hourglass shape most women want when wearing a dress. All are floor-length, meaning I will have to wear heels, and all are well over thousands of dollars. And I haven’t even chosen my designer shoes yet. Then Brad tells me I need a clutch, a necklace, a bracelet, and earrings as well.
The deep blue is a mermaid dress, off the shoulders, sweetheart neckline, a combination of lace and silky fabric, a snugged skirt with flares on the side, flowing to my feet. The red dress is form-fitting, leaving nothing to the imagination. It has a square neckline, leaving my shoulders bare, covers my breasts, hugs my hips, and is pleated just below my knees to flip as I walk. The black dress is off-shoulder, a boat neck, hugged at the waist, flaring out at the knees and resting to my ankles.
“Try them all on again,” Brad tells me.
I peer out of the dressing room and make a face at him. “Aren’t you tired yet?” I whine.
“I don’t get tired,” he tells me.
I make a frustrated noise and disappear into my dressing room. I stand in my underwear and realize that I am not wearing a bra on Friday night, no matter which dress I choose. I study the waist and hips of the dresses—maybe not underwear either.
“I like the blue one!” I call out.
“Put it on and come back out here.”
I blow out a breath, pleased he didn’t argue with me. Last time, I tell myself. Well, until Friday—no wait, I’m not going. I pull the dress on over my head and squirm to get it into place. I pick up the skirt a bit and walk out to my pedestal in front of the mirrors. Brad looks like he’s going to cry, clasping his hands together at his chest.
“Oh! You truly are a vision!”
“Shut up.” I make a face at him, uncomfortable.
He takes no offense as he walks to me and fusses with the dress, straightening it out and tucking parts of me in. He steps back, perusing me, making an adjustment here and there. “Yes, this is the dress for you,” he says. “This one will make all the men—”
“Hush! And I really don’t need to hear that!” I whisper fiercely at him, feeling my cheeks flush. Now I do wish I would die. How crude.
He smiles at me. Ugh! I do not need to be thinking about that all night. I stare at myself in the mirrors and turn this way and that. Yes, this is the dress. It fits me well, and I can breathe in it. An assistant is walking briskly over to me to assist me.
“This is the dress,” I tell her, and she smiles approvingly.
“You’ll need shoes and accessories. Once you change out of the dress, we will have it laundered for you and delivered,” she tells me.
“Oh. The fundraiser is Friday...”
“Yes, we were informed of this,” she says gently. “It will all be taken care of. We will verify your address and have it delivered by Wednesday. Keep it hanging up high so the hem does not brush or rest on the floor. Please, when it is delivered, look it over very carefully and let us know immediately if there is anything amiss, and we will rectify it immediately.”
I tell her I will do this, and the assistant accompanies me to the dressing room to help me out of this dress. She leaves with it, and I close the door behind her. I quickly dress into my jeans and shirt and slip my shoes on. I finger comb
my hair to smooth it out and then step out and meet Brad over by the shoes and other accessories.
“You know I’m doing your hair and makeup, right?” He doesn’t take his eyes off the shoes. “These, right here.” He pulls out a blue pair of the same shade as my dress as I pull a pair of red ones out. He frowns at me, yanks the red ones from me, shoves the blue ones at me, and puts the red ones back on the shelf.
“What?” I ask.
“You are not choosing your shoes. I am.” He considers me a moment. “Or your accessories since you have no fashion sense.” He shakes his head at me.
“Isn’t it a bit cliché that you are...”
“I am what?” He puts a hand on his hip and stares me down.
“Different—and good with fashion?” I bite my lip. He is different, and I have yet to determine just how.
“Darling, I’d say screw you, but I don’t swing that way. Put those shoes on,” he directs.
I make a face at him and slip off my shoes once again. Brad waves a pair of booty nylons at me, and I snatch them from him.
“Testy bitch.” I think I hear.
I tap him with the point of the high heel shoe, and he rubs his knee. I put the nylons on and slip the shoes on. I teeter a bit, and Brad takes my hand. These heels are five, maybe six inches. I’ve never been so tall!
“Walk. We’re going to work on that too.”
“Terrific.” I take a few steps, wobble, get my balance, and walk down the aisle and back again.
“Smaller steps, Cowboy. You’re not swaggering; you’re gliding. Do it again.” He circles his finger at me for me to turn around. “And stop making faces at me.”
He doesn’t see the next one because my back is to him. And I jolt. I’m having fun. Despite my anger at Blake and wanting to push his limits, I’m having fun. In fact, I’ve smiled today. It has replaced the oppressing thoughts of my new life and the nightmare I had imagined it to be with a small kernel of joy.
“Straighten your back and suck in your gut. You look like a newborn calf!”
“I hate you,” I tell him and hear him gasp.
I spin, and he’s got his hands on his hips. He lifts his chest and sucks his gut in, and I copy the movement. He smiles at me as I reach him, barely wobbling.
“One more time. Do what you learned.”
“Ugh.” I blow out a breath and start walking. I suck my gut, straighten my back, and manage to walk without wobbling.
Brad claps as I approach him. “Wonderful! Now for jewelry and a clutch.”
“Get me a clutch with a strap, so I don’t have to hold on to it all night. And I don’t really need one. I have nothing to put in it.”
“It’s for looks,” he informs me casually. “Okay, Princess, pick a purse. I’m picking the jewelry.”
I make a face at him and select a red clutch. Brad reaches around me and puts it back. He raises an eyebrow at me. “Really?”
“What?” I put my hand on my hip. He said I could pick.
“Bling—Darling.” He stares me down.
“Stop—making me all—flashy!” I finish, lamely. I do not want to stand out—I like my wallflower status and intend on keeping it.
“Here, this one. Silvery and sparkly.” He hands it to me, ignoring my distress. “I feel like your fairy godfather!” He scrunches his shoulders up to his ears with a smile and makes a little keening noise of excitement.
“Well, you got the—Ow!” I rub my arm.
He makes a face at me. “Come along, Belle of the Ball. We need jewelry.”
He drags me behind him, and we head to the glass counters to peer over the top and bend down by the sides. There are so many pieces to choose from. The jewelry assistant makes some selections for us and sets them out. Brad holds up earrings to my ears, necklaces around my throat, and yanks my arm forward to drape bracelets over my wrist.
We select dark blue gemstones with diamonds, and I catch Brad looking at tiaras.
“HUH-UH! No tiaras. I’m going to stand out as it is.” And I’m suddenly uncomfortable. Maybe all of this is too much. Something needs to happen before Friday. But a kernel of joy is still there in my chest, and it’s glowing.
“That’s what we want, Princess.”
I bump him again and walk to the checkout counter. The assistant places the jewelry into boxes and gives me bags for my shoes, clutch, and jewelry. Brad yanks the bags out of my hands and leads me out of the store as I call out a thank you over my shoulder.
On our ride home, I smile.
I catch myself and try to frown—I can’t. I had fun today. Brad pulled me out of something that I wanted to wallow in. I had fun despite myself, and Brad’s company is a welcome distraction from what I’ve been thinking—doing. He chatters on as our driver brings us home.
Home.
Is that what it is now?
BRAD BRINGS MY THINGS to my room as I stay downstairs because Blake is there, and he wants to speak to me. I shift my feet, my good mood dissolving and anxiety trying to take root inside of me. I take a good look at him, seeing him, really, for the first time since my foray into the library. Yes, he is one, and I know this now. I should be frightened, but I’m not. Instead, I find myself curious, and I get angry at myself for it.
“I’m glad you met Brad,” he says quietly. “He will help you here.”
I meet Blake’s eyes and press my lips together. He looks me up and down, and I flush. Blake has a way of looking at me, making me think he wonders what I wear under my clothes. I’m dismayed to find out that it makes me wonder what he wears under his clothes—or doesn’t wear. He draws me to him without even trying, and I’m irritable again for feeling this way. I’m irritable at thinking him attractive and wanting to step into his embrace and feel his strength.
“You could have told me about the dinner tonight,” I accuse him right away.
“Apologies. I was called away suddenly.” His tone is matter of fact.
Or, it was my attitude this morning. I glare at him, and he holds the silence with me for a bit. Being angry is my only defense and just about the only thing that makes sense right now.
“Did you find something suitable to wear for tonight?” he asks cordially.
“Yes. But I’m not going.” I’m flippant. I dare him. I really hadn’t meant to say that, but it’s out now, so I run with it.
I turn away, but I don’t get far. His fingers are pressing into the inner corner of my arm at the elbow. I wince, but spin and jerk out of his grip, glaring at him, daring him to strike me. Hoping he does, yet hoping he doesn’t at the same time.
“There are certain things you will do that are non-negotiable. One of them is to accompany me when I wish it. Tonight I wish it.” His tone is unyielding and firm, brokering no argument.
It’s the first time I’ve heard him demand something of me, and I bristle at it. It irks me. I ‘Pfft’ and look away. “You don’t want me here any more than I want to be here, so why pretend?” If he makes me go, I’m ruining his dinner. And I know I sound childish, but I have an agenda, a goal, and Friday is coming quick.
“Is that what you believe?” His eyes are on me, his brow furrowed.
I pause, listening to that low tone once again. It is what I believe, but now I wonder if he believes it. Frustration makes me angry, and I ball my fists at my sides. “What else am I to believe?” I demand.
“I’m sorry you believe this,” he tells me softly. The tone of his voice seems almost musical, and it slides over me. “I need company tonight, and you will come with me. You will behave and not spoil this.”
He turns from me, and I hear his tone of finality as if I’m a child. It angers me, and yet, I am a child in my defiance and can’t seem to stop myself. My only recourse is to push it. I have to because my hell is only just beginning, and I’m not going through that again. I am taking control, and I will behave—as I wish to. He won’t tell me what to do. I am tired of all these males telling me what to do, how to act—and being powerless to stop them.<
br />
Blake
I WAS PLEASED TO SEE her this morning. She didn’t look as if she slept well; however, I know this will be an adjustment. I thought we were making some progress at breakfast. She seemed interested in Shen, who has been an asset here in my home. I appreciate him and what he can do. I know he was excited to cook for Marina, and I am delighted her defiance did not extend to him. Seeing her acceptance of him had me texting Brad to come by and hopefully pull her out of this mansion and do something fun.
Brad is another who is an asset here in my home, and I figured Marina might click with him. I am glad I was correct. He texted me while at the boutique and said they were having a ‘marvelous’ time. I relaxed then. I trust Brad and his selections. It’s not that I don’t think Marina is beautiful as she is, but I need her dressed for the occasions I frequently have. It would seem odd that I am married and did not have my wife with me for certain functions.
When she defied me today, telling me she wasn’t going, I had to tell her no-nonsense that it was unnegotiable. At these times, it is clear how inexperienced she is and, at my age, her youth. But I want the beautiful wife—to show her off, keep her at my side. I need her by my side, and I need her to come out from behind those walls she has erected. I hate to force her, but I need her to know that I am not the monster she believes me to be.
Perhaps someday, she will see me and not cringe—or spout anger at me.
Chapter Six
Marina
BRAD WAS A BIT VAGUE about tonight other than the restaurant is expensive. Of course, I would expect no less. I’m in the back of the black limo with dark, tinted windows and I am thinking it’s Blake’s only transportation mode. I adjust my seat on the comfortable leather and realize this is the same one we rode in after we left the reception. And then I realize he must own this vehicle. I guess I shouldn’t doubt it. I sit on the far side of him, staring out the window, wondering what I will do to mess things up for him tonight. Maybe I’ll start with being...
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