"Maria will bring you something to wear in the meantime." He sounds completely unconcerned. "Consider it a temporary solution."
"You can't just—you had no right?—"
"I have every right. You're mine, remember? That includes making sure you're properly dressed." A pause. "The new wardrobe will be more appropriate for your position."
"My position as your prisoner, you mean?"
"Your position as my girlfriend." His voice hardens. "The party is tomorrow, Bianca. You need to look the part. Your schoolteacher clothes aren’t going to cut it."
"Those were MY clothes! You can't just throw away my things!"
"I already did. Now if you'll excuse me, I have a meeting." He hangs up before I can respond.
I stare at my phone, shaking with fury. He threw away my clothes. ALL of them.
A knock on the door makes me jump.
"Miss Mancini?" Maria's voice. "I have something for you to wear today."
I yank open the door. Maria's holding a garment bag, her expression apologetic.
"I'm sorry," she says quietly. "He insisted."
"It's not your fault." I take the bag, my hands still trembling. "Thank you."
She nods and disappears back down the hallway.
Inside the bag is a dress. Simple, black, appropriate for work. Also tighter than anything I'd normally wear. And shorter. But it's clothes, and I need clothes, so I put it on. The fabric clings to curves I usually hide. The neckline is lower than I'm comfortable with. The hem hits mid-thigh instead of my usual knee-length.
I look like someone else.
Someone who belongs to Dante Vitale.
The thought makes me want to scream.
I spend the day at school in a haze of anger. The kids notice I'm distracted, but they're sweet about it. Alex asks if I'm okay twice. I lie and say I'm fine.
By the time Tony picks me up, I've worked myself into a fury that's been building all day.
When I get back to the estate, there are designer shopping bags covering the bed. es. Dresses, skirts, tops, lingerie—all of it screaming money and sex and everything I'm not. Or at least not anymore.
I pick up a dress. Red. Skintight. Completely backless.
Another one. Black lace. See-through panels.
A third. White, short enough to be a long shirt.
Every single piece is provocative. Revealing. The exact opposite of what I'd choose for myself.
He did this on purpose.
Took away everything that was mine and replaced it with his vision of what I should be.
I'm shaking so hard I have to sit down.
The clothes mock me from their expensive bags. Beautiful. Designer. Completely wrong.
By the time I hear his footsteps in the hallway hours later, I've moved past fury into something colder.
