Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 79991 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 400(@200wpm)___ 320(@250wpm)___ 267(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 79991 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 400(@200wpm)___ 320(@250wpm)___ 267(@300wpm)
“I was thinking. Here we are, on the verge of getting married, but we’ve never even gone on a date. That doesn’t seem right, does it?”
That doesn’t seem right? Out of everything that’s happened since he discovered me in that warehouse, what’s bothering him is the fact that we’ve never been on a date before we were forced into marriage?
“Wow, this is really nice.” I run the backs of my fingers along the blood-red satin dress. It’s stunning, really. I wonder how he got his hands on it—it’s not one of the things he bought me when we went shopping.
“Go ahead, get yourself ready.” He’s out of the room before I can think to ask exactly where we’re going. I doubt it would matter if I asked, anyway. It’s not like I have any say in this.
Besides, it might not be so bad. A night out means a night away from the house, at least. And I’m sure that once he’s out in public around other people and has to behave himself, he could probably be pretty charming.
And if we are relating to each other one-on-one, just two people stuck in an impossible situation, he might feel a little more sympathy for me. It can’t hurt to try to win him over a little, can it?
Something tells me I’m going to win him over, at least when it comes to how I look. The dress fits like a glove like it was made just for me. It hugs my curves, coming to a stop an inch above my knee and low cut enough that my boobs look like they want to spill out of it. But the dress is constructed well enough that it’s only an illusion. I can’t help but like what I see when I check myself out in the full-length bathroom mirror once I’ve finished applying some of the makeup I snagged during our shopping trip. I’m glad I thought about that. No girl can get married without at least a little bit of makeup, I told him. Now I don’t have to go out barefaced, feeling sloppy.
Even as I offer myself a tiny smile in the mirror once I’m finished checking myself out, something keeps tugging at my heart, making it impossible to feel confident. I finally realize what it is while slipping on a pair of black heels: the last time I got dressed up like this, I was getting ready to go to the warehouse.
A chill runs through me, finally settling in my stomach in the form of a block of ice. At least, that’s what it feels like. How is it possible my life has changed so much in such a short amount of time? Will I ever be able to go back to the way it used to be? I’m not sure how I could. I’m a different person now; at least, that’s how it feels. I’ve been through situations I never imagined before. I’m not the Alicia I used to be, and I never will be again. It’s enough to make frustrated tears threaten to well up in my eyes, but I’m determined to blink them back. Not only because I don’t want to give in to despair—I’m afraid I’d never find my way out—but I just finished my makeup and don’t want to keep Enzo waiting. If he’s in a good mood, he’s not being cruel and abusive.
Once I’m satisfied, I take the stairs slowly, careful in my new stilettos. He’s waiting in the living room, sipping a glass of whiskey while checking something on his phone. The sound of my footfalls on the stairs makes him glance up, distracted, before he does a complete double take. His mouth falls open slightly, and his eyes follow my every move.
In other words, I think I’m making a good impression.
“How do I look?” I hold my arms out to the sides and do a slow turn. I’m pretty sure he hasn’t breathed since he caught sight of me.
“You look… fucking hot.”
I burst out laughing before I can help myself. “Thank you. So do you, by the way.” Does he ever. And he smells even better, his musky cologne leaving me fighting the urge to lean in and breathe deep.
“All a guy has to do is put on a suit.”
“Yeah, and that’s really unfair.” We share an awkward little grin before I ask, “So where are we going?”
“I thought we’d stop in at a club my family owns. It’s a little place, nothing over the top or anything like that. I figured we could do a little dancing, have some drinks, just hang out together for a while.”
I hope he’s not serious about the dancing part because I am no one’s idea of graceful or even particularly coordinated. But I’m not about to protest, either. A night out? The closest I’ve come to normalcy since I got in the Uber to go to the warehouse? Yeah. I think that sounds like a good idea.