Reconsidered.
Hands planted firmly on my hips, I stand in the middle of the small room, surveying the sartorial battlefield.
What if I refuse to dress up for his twisted game?
Stick to my simple jeans and a plain T-shirt?
But I can’t afford to be turned away at the door.Hydra has a dress code, and I know James’s crowd.Influential, judgmental, and tonight, they’ll all be watching me.All the more reason for my outfit to send its own message before I even open my mouth.A message that says:
I am not a victim.
And I am not playing.
“Ames?”Helen’s voice echoes down the hallway, followed by the sound of brisk footsteps approaching.
“In here,” I answer, my frown fixed on a deceptively innocent burgundy wrap mini-skirt.
“¡Dios mio!Your suitcase exploded!”Helen appears in the doorway, carefully navigating a pair of heels near the door.“It’s like laundry day gone wild over here.”She crosses her arms over her chest, staring down at the mess.
“I need to find the perfect outfit for tonight,” I tell her, my eyes still scanning the pile.
“So, what’s the plan?”she asks with a hint of apprehension.
“The plan,” I echo, turning to meet her gaze.“I’m going.But not as his puppet.I’ve decided to confront him in front of everyone.All by myself.”
A slow, proud smile spreads across Helen’s face.“Valiente.Brave girl.You’re doing the right thing, Ames.”
“I sure hope so,” I breathe, nodding slowly.
Her gaze sweeps over the disaster zone again, then meets mine, steady and reassuring.“Take your time in here.I’ve got the front covered.”
“Thanks, Helen, I’ll be quick.”
She pauses in the doorway and turns back.“And listen, you’re coming home with me after we close.”She catches my confused look and clarifies, “Proper shower and something to eat.”
“No, Helen, thanks, but—”
“I won’t take no for an answer.”
“It’s too much, really.I’ll be fine using our washroom here,” I insist.
“Look, I may not have a fancy dress for you like that grandmother in Cinderella, but I have a shower and a hot meal,” she says, stepping closer.
“Godmother,” I correct with a light giggle.
“¿Qué?”
“She was her fairy godmother, not her grandmother,” I explain.
“Sure, whatever.It’s settled then,” she says, waving a hand on her way out.“We leave together.”
“Thank you,” I call after her.
“De nada,” she answers over her shoulder.
Left alone again, my hands dive back into the chaos.A puzzle of fabric and intent.
The silk camisole?
