"What are you doing?" he asks, his voice low.
"Fighting back." I yank my arm free. "You said I could hate you the entire time. Well, I do. And I'm not going to stand there like a good little prisoner while you dress me up like your toy."
"You're being difficult."
"I'm being human." Tears threaten again. "You've taken everything from me, Nathan. Everything. But you don't get this. You don't get to erase who I am completely."
Something flickers in his expression—surprise, maybe, or respect.
"Fine," he says finally. "Wear whatever you want. But you're getting a full wardrobe."
It's a small victory, but I'll take it.
I choose the black dress. And then a dozen more pieces, deliberately picking things I know he won't like. Conservative cuts. High necklines.
Nathan watches, his jaw tight, but he doesn't interfere.
Until the lingerie.
"The red one," he says when I reach for simple black cotton.
"No."
"Eve—"
"I said no. You don't get to choose my underwear."
Nathan's eyes narrow. "The red one, Eve. I want to see you in it."
Something shifts inside me. A reckless, dangerous impulse.
He wants the red one? Fine. He can have it.
"You know what?" I turn to the assistant with a bright, brittle smile. "We'll take the red set. I'd like to try it on."
Nathan's eyes flash with triumph, but I'm not done.
"Here," I add. "I'll change right here."
The assistant's eyes go wide. "Miss Sinclair, there's a fitting room—"
"I don't need it." I turn to face Nathan fully. "You want to see me in it so badly? Watch."
I see the moment he realizes what I'm doing. His eyes darken, his body goes still, and I feel the power shift between us.
Good. Let him suffer.
I pull his t-shirt over my head slowly, deliberately, standing there in nothing but yesterday's underwear. His breath catches, and I watch his hands clench into fists. I take off my bra and keep his gaze as I step out of my panties. I stand before him fully naked and exposed.
The assistant turns away, but Nathan doesn't. He can't. His eyes are locked on me, hungry and helpless, and for the first time since this nightmare began, I feel like I have the upper hand.
I reach for the red lace bra, slipping it on with agonizing slowness. It's beautiful—crimson silk and delicate lace that makes my skin look like cream. I adjust the straps, taking mytime, watching Nathan's chest rise and fall with increasingly ragged breaths.
Then the panties. I step into them, sliding them up my legs, and I hear the low sound he makes in his throat—half growl, half groan.
"Well?" I ask, turning in a slow circle. "Is this what you wanted?"
His eyes are blazing. Every muscle in his body is taut with restraint. I can see exactly what this is doing to him—the desire, the need, the absolute inability to touch me here, in public.
