An hour and a half later, I’m wrapped in a short robe nearly identical to the one Jafar ruined the night before, my hair done and my makeup impeccable. It doesn’t escape my notice that Jafar had the bathroom stocked with my brands, all shiny and new.
He planned this.
I knew, of course. Jafar isn’t one to leave anything to chance. But knowing that he ordered this room outfitted for me … I can’t tell if I like it or loathe it. It seems to be an overarching theme when it comes to me and Jafar.
The stylist shows up early.
She’s a short, curvy woman with a pixie cut of blond hair and an attitude that conveys an instant chip in her shoulder. Her high-waisted trousers and fitted white blouse look classy and sexy at the same time, and she raises a single pierced eyebrow when she sees me. “Dear god, we have so much work to do.”
“Excuse me?”
“No need to excuse anything, princess.” She turns back to the elevator and snaps her fingers. Two hulking men wheel out rack after rack of clothing in a rainbow of colors. Another snap of her fingers and they disappear back into the elevator.
I can’t tell if they’re her men or Jafar’s, but they obeyed her without blinking. I envy her that power. My father’s men only ever obeyed me out of fear of him. I imagine Jafar’s men will do the same. Never because of the threat I pose or the power I wield.
She arranges the racks in the living room and then points to a spot in the center. “Stand here. Robe off.”
I don’t move. I may bend to Jafar because I have no choice, but this woman is under the mistaken impression than I’m a cowering flower just waiting to be trampled. “Some courtesy would do you good.”
The blonde rolls her green eyes. “Yeah, that isn’t how this works. I’m the best at what I do, and being the best means you listen to me, not the other way around.” She pointed to the spot again and injected enough sugar into her tone to give me a cavity. “Unless you’d rather walk around naked?”
She has me cornered and she knows it. I grit my teeth. I know better than to bargain from a weak position where I have nothing to gain and everything to lose. This is just a job to her. “If you don’t dress me, you don’t get paid.”
“Cute.” She smirks. “Contract says I get half up front. You throw a hissy fit, that money’s still mine and I have a free afternoon. You don’t have the leverage, so you might as well give it up now.”
I hate that she’s right.
I stalk to the spot she indicated and shrug out of the robe. The woman whistles. “No wonder Jafar lost his godforsaken mind over you.” She circles me, his gaze calculating. “Jewel tones, yes. Look at that shade of brown skin. Perfect. Just perfect.” As if I’m a piece of art, rather than a person.
I’ve botched this. I need allies, not enemies. I take a deep breath and do my best to banish my anger. It’s not even directed at her, not really. She’s just a convenient target that turned out to be not that convenient. “I’m Jasmine.”
“I know.” She rifles through the first rack. “I’m Tink. No, we can’t be friends. No, I don’t have any useful information for you to mine. No, I won’t do anything to compromise my contract.”
Well, so much for that offer of an olive branch. Strangely enough, her abruptness has already started to grow on me. She’s like being slapped in the face with an Arctic wind—cold and bitter and somehow refreshing all the same. “You have a contract with Jafar?”
She shoots me an exasperated look. “No, of course not. Who the hell has contracts with Jafar?” At my look of confusion, she frowns harder. “Holy crap, you really have no idea how this works, do you?”
“It might help if you explain,” I say mildly.
Tink lifts up a red dress that seems more holes than fabric. She holds it up, nods to herself and sets it aside. “Not my job, princess.”
“I’m not a princess.”
“You’re Jasmine Sarraf, daughter of Balthazar Sarraf. That’s as close to royalty as it gets in Carver City. At least in Sarraf’s piece of it.”
It’s not a point I’m willing to argue, because she’s right. “How do you know Jafar?”
“Other than by reputation, I don’t.” She considers a green dress and puts it back onto the rack. Tink looks at me and sighs. “I’m not a comforter. We’re not going to bond over our mutually shitty circumstances and become besties in the course of a few hours while I do the job I was hired to do. That’s not how this works.”