All of this for little old me? I feel guilty. “Thank you,” I tell them, and they spin around like they said they would, giving me the privacy I need.
I’m healed now. The bruises are gone, the scratches are healed, and the only proof of my ordeal left are a few faint lines along my inner thigh and the emotional, mental trauma, but I’m getting through it. A therapist comes every other day, a woman of course, and helps me
through the nightmares I’ve been having.
I’m not allowed to leave the house yet. My parents say it is for my best interest, but I know it is for theirs. What they don’t understand though, is I can’t heal if I’m not allowed space to regain my humanity.
I’m getting better, slowly, but surely. The only thing I can’t stand is touch from someone I don’t know. A don’t shake hands, I don’t hug in greeting, I don’t like pats on the shoulder.
Slipping off my jeans, I reach for the black slip hanging on the cart and step into the tight bodice. It sucks everything in, that’s for sure. Holy hell, how do they expect me to breathe?
“Okay, I’m ready,” I say, sliding my arms through the skinny straps.
When they turn around, Ariel unzips the gown delicately and the stylist, whose name I do not know, carefully lifts and slides it on over my head. Gravity takes its turn and the gown cascades down my body until it hits the floor. Ariel tugs the zipper up and the dress becomes snug, as if it was made just for me.
Ariel and her boss walk around me and stand in the same stance, hands folded behind their backs and professional expressions on their faces. After sliding her eyes up and down my body, the runway model grins, pleased. “Oh, this dress is perfect for you. Come. You have to see,” she says, guiding me toward the full-length mirror on the right side of my bed.
I gasp when I see myself. I run my hands down my waist and take a step closer to my reflection. I can’t believe what I see. The dress is prettier than I could have ever hoped for. It hugs me like a second skin, but it doesn’t reveal too much either. My legs are covered, besides the slit that comes right below the knee, it’s elegant, yet gives a dangerous vibe. The red flare of the lapels takes this gown to another level.
“Are you okay? Is the dress not to your liking?” Ariel asks, fanning out the train more so I can get the full effect.
That’s when I notice I’m crying, but these are tears of joy, tears of relief, tears of freedom. I feel beautiful again. I feel like a woman. “It’s everything,” I whisper. “You don’t understand how this makes me feel. Thank you,” I say, unable to look away from myself.
“Well, we aren’t done. Every dress needs a wicked high heel, right?” The stylist smirks, her red-stained lips confident. “And I know just the shoe that will go with this dress. A simple black pair of Louis Vuitton? They have a red bottom that will give you another pop of color when you walk.”
“Will anyone see? The train will block the shoes. I’d hate to hide them.”
“It’s why the train can do this…” Ariel bends down and folds the train until it looks like a seashell, then clips it, giving me a fun tail.
I love it.
“You ladies are good.”
“Oh, you haven’t seen nothing yet. Just wait until we do your hair and makeup. No one will see the old you. They will see the new and improved you. The one taking her life back in her own hands.” The stylist squeezes her hand into a tight fist as if she is squishing something. She’s intense, but she sure as hell is good at her job because I am lifting my chin higher, my back is straighter, and I’m ready to take on the world.
The only person I wish was here to see my progress is Asher.
One day, I’ll be the woman he deserves, but not until I tell my truth to the cops. When Asher is free, that’s when I’ll be free.
Twelve
Heaven
Being in my hometown makes me sick. I hate it here. There is nothing special about it. It holds nothing but bad memories. I curl my fingers into my knee while is stare at the suit hanging on the back of the hotel door. The team has separate rooms, but they are all interconnected. Everyone is getting ready for the Ball and I’m sitting here on the oversized bed wondering how my life brought me back to exactly where I started.
I lean back on the bed and throw my arm over my eyes, debating if the guys can do this without me. Sure, I’m the only one that is experienced in this life, but it isn’t hard to figure out. Smile, drink, gossip about Jeff who got the cheap brand of gold clubs and his swing leans a little to the right. Talk about the wives. They don’t even have to say names because the other men will laugh and throw names out left and right. All anyone has to do is smile and nod.
But.
There is always a but.
They want to create a little bit of drama and chaos which is why they want me going into the party alone for the first hour, then they will come through, flashing their fake invitation and the guards won’t know because people who look rich must be the real deal, which is why we have Armani tuxedoes, but I’m going in without the bow tie.
I hate bowties.
Luckily, the Governor’s ball isn’t going to be held in the same place as it was all those years ago. I don’t think I could have gone through with this job knowing I was walking into the same building where I found Grace beaten to death.
A knock at the door is loud, demanding, and it’s more of a pound than a tap, which tells me it is Owen. I roll out of bed and keep my towel tucked around my hips before walking over and unlocking the door. I swing it open. “Come on in, Owen. Make yourself at home. Go to the mini bar. I am.” My feet patter along the tile floor before the ground switches over to carpet.