"That's the second time you've used that word tonight," he says quietly. "Hooker. Prostitute. Why?"
"Because that's what those clothes are designed for. To make me look like I'm for sale."
"Or to make you look desirable. Feminine. Attractive."
"I can be those things without showing everything I have."
"Can you?" He's assessing me now, clinical. "Because from where I'm standing, you go out of your way to hide. Like you're ashamed of your own body."
Heat floods my face. "I'm not ashamed?—"
"Then what's the deal with the clothes, Bianca? Why does it matter so much?"
"Because it's not about comfort!" The words burst out before I can stop them. "Because people see a woman in revealing clothes and they make assumptions. They assume she's stupid. That she's available. That she's?—"
"A prostitute," he finishes.
"Yes." I clutch my pendant, feeling the familiar edges cut into my palm. "Most women who dress provocatively are seen that way. Like they're less intelligent. Like their only value is their body. And I won't—I can't?—"
I stop, realizing I'm saying too much.
"You can't what?"
"Nothing. Forget it." I back up a step. "I just want my own space. That's all. My own room where I can wear what I want and not have you judging every choice I make."
He studies me for a long moment, and I can practically see him cataloging information, filing it away to use later.
"You had two conditions," he says finally. "Teaching. Visiting your mother. I agreed to both."
"So?"
"So everything else, you obey." His voice is firm but not aggressive. "Including sleeping arrangements."
"That's not fair?—"
"Fair?" He crosses his arms. "Nothing about this is fair, Bianca. But you signed the contract anyway. You agreed to follow my instructions. And I'm instructing you to sleep in my room."
"Why does it matter?" My voice drops. "If it's about appearances, we'll mess up the bed. Make it look slept in. No one will know the difference."
"I'll know."
"Why do you care?"
"Because you're mine." The words are matter-of-fact, unyielding. "For the next however many months it takes to settle this debt, you belong to me. And what's mine doesn't hide in guest rooms."
"I'm not having sex with you."
"I'm not asking you to." He doesn't move closer, just watches me. "I'm telling you to sleep. In a bed. That happens to be in my room. That's it."
"In those ridiculous pajamas."
"In whatever you want. I'll have Maria get you something else tomorrow."
That surprises me. "Really?"
"Really. I don't care what you sleep in. I care where you sleep. Those are two different things."
I search his face, looking for the lie. But his expression is serious, almost businesslike.
