seeing me naked. So what would he think about another man touching me? Or violating me? I sickly smile to myself. There it is again. Joy. No, Rose. Joy isn’t an emotion I should get used to. I feel it from time to time, once in a blue moon when I get a glimpse of my boy. And then, moments later, the inevitable heartbreak when my reality sinks back in.
I need to get out of here, or I’m a dead woman. I might not feel much, but I still have a survival instinct, and I want to live. Even if I’m a prisoner in my own life. It still means someone else is free. My mind momentarily wanders to places I always forbid it to go, before I quickly pull myself back from the brink of feeling. Feeling would be pointless. It wouldn’t change anything. I need to focus on getting myself out of this mess. But tonight, I have a date. I also have another problem.
I look at the red dress on the floor, the only item of clothing I have here. I hate myself with a vengeance for wanting something else to wear. Something I picked. Something undeniably me. I can’t remember the last time I wore something because I wanted to wear it, not because someone else wanted me to wear it. In fact, it’s never happened. As a little girl, I didn’t want to wear the rags that were the only clothes within my reach. And as a woman, I’ve never wanted to wear the clothes I’ve been made to wear to make me look like the enticing piece of meat that I am. But I have. Because that’s what I do. Because I have no choice. It’s the times when I’m alone, when I can lounge in a pair of pajamas, that I feel most like me. I cherish those times. Have to, because they are a rarity.
I sigh and stand, pulling my towel in and going to the bathroom. I find a hairdryer in the vanity unit and start blasting my hair. I have no makeup, no perfume, no anything. And I hate myself again for wishing I did. Because I want to look nice. Not for him, but for myself. Because it’ll enhance the power I’ll feel when I’m holding my own with Danny Black.
Another sigh.
I flip my head upside down, blasting my hair from every angle. One thing I’m blessed with in this miserable life is thick, wavy hair and even a rough dry will give me something smooth and manageable. I spotted some men’s hair product earlier that I can use to gloss if necessary. His hair product. His shower gel, his shampoo.
Tossing my hair back, I look up to the mirror. And freeze. He’s standing in the doorway watching me, and I’m quickly so thankful he can’t hear my thoughts. He’s in a suit. A three-piece. A light gray three-piece suit. Designer. Bespoke. It makes his hair look blacker, his eyes bluer.
He’s trimmed his stubble, making his scar more prominent. He’s fixed his hair, making it almost too perfect for his sharp, angry features.
I’ve been looking at him for far too long. I quickly gather myself, feeling the towel loosen around my chest. I don’t stop it from falling, letting it hit the floor as I switch off the dryer and blow my hair out of my face. His facial expression doesn’t falter in the slightest. I’d wonder if he’s becoming immune to the sight of my naked body—Lord knows he’s seen it enough—but I sense his determination to remain unaffected by my brazenness. I confuse him. He can’t hide that. I imagine every woman falls all over herself to please him, whether that be because of lust or fear. The latter is wasted on me. The former I will go to the end of the earth to contain.
Without a word, he comes to me, taking my wrist and pulling me from the bathroom, ever the gent. He stops us by the full-length mirror in the bedroom, placing me in front of it and taking up position behind me. Unashamedly, he looks me up and down in the reflection, his chin virtually resting on my shoulder. “What will you be wearing for our date?”
He knows damn well I only have the red dress. “Whatever you tell me to,” I reply evenly.
He nods approvingly. “I’m telling you to wear what’s laid out on the bed.”
My eyes dart to the bed beyond