Total pages in book: 133
Estimated words: 128290 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 641(@200wpm)___ 513(@250wpm)___ 428(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 128290 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 641(@200wpm)___ 513(@250wpm)___ 428(@300wpm)
“At least you’re well-trained,” she mutters, reaching out and pushing my lips down to check my teeth. “And well-maintained. I assume you’re bare?”
At that, my attention does snap to her. “Excuse me?”
“The only part of you Mr. Fikile is interested in. Is it bare?”
Wow.
Wow.
“I guess he’ll find out if we ever say I do, won’t he?” I stare her down, her words cutting deeper than they should. “If your boss thinks kidnapping me was a good way to get my dad to come busting down the doors with my sister in tow, ready to make the swap he was promised, do me a favor? Tell him not to hold his breath. If rescuing me means putting Rocklin at risk…you’ve gained yourself a new, lifelong prison mate.”
Unless Rocklin is here and I’m already in prison for attempting to break the contract.
Holy shit, what if that’s exactly what’s happening?
The woman’s eyes show her age as they narrow on me, but she simply strides past to the private bathroom connected to my room, or maybe I should call it my temporary jail cell. Not sure which it is just yet.
She steps up to the giant, blue-tinted glass doors and pulls them open, running the water like I’m a child who needs help. “Leave the water at the temperature I set. Any warmer and your pores will open and any colder and they will clog. You will take ice baths once a week to help prevent wrinkles, and use of the sauna will be mandated if your clothes grow too tight.” Her attention flicks over me in my nightgown with reproach and she pinches her lips together. “Your driver will arrive promptly two hours from now, but your meal will be served at the breakfast table this morning in one, so move it along, Miss Revenaw. Your days of sleeping the hours away are gone.”
“Driver?” Something swirls in my stomach and I’m not sure if it’s anticipation or dread.
She blinks, walking past me. “Your wardrobe will be on your bed once you are done. If you’re so much of a princess that you need help with your hair, call for me.”
I don’t need help with my hair, but her words irritate me, so I stomp to the side until I can see her in the room. “I don’t have a phone!”
The woman ignores me, moving toward the closet that’s stocked with basic, thoughtless outfits, so I do the only thing I can in the moment. I take a fucking shower.
Despite what I expected, the water temperature is quite nice, but I don't stand beneath it for long, not with the threat of time against me. Father always stressed the importance of appearance, so if I'm going to live up to the expectation of an heir, I need every minute I can get, especially when the products stocked in my room are not ones I’d typically choose.
I've just swiped my lipstick across my lower lip when the soft click of the bedroom door opening garners my attention—I was waiting for it this time.
Pushing my long blonde hair over my shoulder, I step into the room to find the same woman standing there. She sweeps her hand out, only to jump in front of me when my feet reach her.
Her glare points toward the floor. “You’re not wearing the heels I set out.”
“No.” I keep my eyes pointed forward. “I’m not.”
She scoffs but says not another word, silently leading me down the hall.
This is a different part of the mansion than the one I was in before. Before, there were at least tapestries above the windows and images hanging on the walls. They were bland, matchy-matchy things to make it look as if the house was put together, likely things that were already here when he bought this property, and he didn’t care enough to change anything.
This area is no different in the sense that it’s not a home, but it’s even emptier than the wing I was tucked away in last time. There’s no furniture in the giant room we pass along the way to the dining room, and nothing decorates the walls in this never-ending hall.
Truly, the only sign of life is the slight smudge of shoe prints that gleam against the shiny floor. Not the kind that come from grime, but from someone taking the first step over a freshly waxed marble.
It’s eerily silent for the home of a crime boss, nothing but the sound of the woman’s heels clinking against the floor and making sure to stay a step ahead of me. No guards, no other staff, nothing.
Finally, at the end of the walkway, we curve left, pausing in front of two giant mahogany doors.
At first, I wonder if she’s waiting for me to open them for her, but then they open on their own, and instantly, my head snaps up in search of a camera.