“Too much back,” Marta said. “And the neckline will photograph poorly. Next.”
I chewed on my bottom lip as I walked back into the fitting room and shucked the dress from my body. I should have felt elated that she hated it as much as I did, but there was nothing but disappointment coursing through me. This woman was going to plan out the rest of my life, and for what? Gritting my teeth, I pulled on the next dress. I wasn’t a person anymore, I was a doll—a mannequin— and I would never have an identity again. Poppy Fairchild didn’t matter; she was dead and gone. I was going to be Poppy Madden and whoever that was… I wasn’t so sure.
The next dress was silver—nearly white—sleek, with a slit that climbed scandalously high. I stepped into it with numb hands, pulled it up, and smoothed it down.
My reflection stared back at me like a stranger.
Beautiful.
Polished.
Empty.
A counterfeit version of myself.
I stepped out again.
Marta lifted her chin. “Better. This one frames your face nicely.”
I swallowed. “I—don’t know if this is really?—”
“Miss Fairchild,” Marta said sharply. “Your opinions arenoted. But ultimately irrelevant. Mr. Madden has a very specific vision.”
My entire body went cold.
“He wants a wife that reflects his stature—his power. You will do that, or you will end up at the bottom of the Hudson.”
My stomach lurched so violently I had to inhale slowly to keep from getting sick.
“Try the black one,” Marta said, snapping her fingers. “I think it’ll be the most appropriate for tonight’s activities.”
I lifted the black dress from the hanger.
It was stunning.
A deep V at the front.
A delicate lace back.
Fabric that glittered faintly like stars trapped in ink.
It looked like something powerful.
But when I slid the material over my body and looked into the mirror… Once again, I didn’t see myself.
I opened the door.
Marta’s eyes sharpened. “Yes. That one. That will do nicely.”
Chapter Forty
Poppy
Everythingabout me glimmered and shimmered. My hair was glossy and curled to perfection. My body had been oiled up and rubbed down and I, once again, didn’t recognize the woman staring back at me when I pulled the black dress over my body. Marta dabbed perfume behind my ears, and I tried my hardest to not scrunch up my nose. It was a sugary scent, one I would have never put on myself. I didn’t know what she was doing with this one, but I didn’t have a single say, and after spending the last few hours with her… I knew better than to even try. It was about Mr. Madden.
“Your date is at Le Cygne Noir,” she said, watching my reflection rather than me. “A private dining experience. Only the most elite. The guest list is tight.”
I’d learned through all the pampering I’d undergone that she didn’t care much for responses. She just expected me to listen and obey. If I tried to make the wrong sound, shelooked like she was ready to paddle me. I wouldn’t put it past her to have one hidden in her suit coat.
