But right now, I wanted that version of him—the one who’d chased me through that building not to hurt me but to get to me first, like he knew monsters lurked in the shadows.
Maybe I didn’t deserve to be saved. I’d been too impulsive. Too trusting.
But God help me—I wanted him to come.
The door slammed open so hard it hit the wall. I shot up, heart pounding, breath stuck in my throat.
The housekeeper who’d been here earlier stood in the doorway, staring at me stone-faced. Beside her was a younger woman whose arms were full of various items—a costume, a makeup case, and a curling iron.
The bed had been too comfortable. I must’ve dozed off, and now my brain was slow to catch up.
“Stand up,” the housekeeper ordered.
Bleary-eyed, I shoved the covers off, climbed out, and swayed as I stood beside the bed, struggling to wake up fully. It was dark outside the window; I must have slept for hours.
She yanked the blanket up and dropped the costume onto the bed. The younger woman set the case on the dresser and opened it.
They moved as if this was a well-rehearsed routine—one of them silent, one uneasy. Not a word of comfort was offered to me, no attempt made to soften what was coming.
If Delgado planned to torture me, why clean me up? Why dress me as though I were going onstage?
The housekeeper pulled a pair of scissors from her apron. “Clothes off. Now.”
I hesitated.
She didn’t.
Taking one quick step forward, she grabbed the collar of my shirt and sliced through the shoulder seam. She stepped to the other side, and a couple of snips later, my top fell to the floor. My arms instinctively rose to cover my chest, but she slapped them down.
“Shorts too.”
I gaped at her incredulously, but her face didn’t change.
“Do it, or I will.”
My fingers fumbled with the waistband. Clenching my teeth, I peeled the shorts off slowly, the air cool against my skin. Then I stood there, completely naked, arms locked tight at my sides.
The younger woman kept her gaze averted, focusing on the makeup case sitting on the dresser. The housekeeper pointed to the stool in front of the mirror.
“Sit.”
I crossed the room and did as instructed. God, this was so embarrassing, being naked in front of these strange women.
No towel. No robe. Nothing.
Just exposed skin and a drill sergeant ordering me about.
The housekeeper stood behind me, clutching the curling iron like a weapon. She plugged it in, and she and the other woman opened their cases, laying out their tools with methodical precision before descending on me. The housekeeper curled my hair into tight, smooth spirals, yanking and twisting as if I were a mannequin. Heat from the wand seared through the strands, though she never once burned my skin.
The younger one moved in from the side and got to work on my face. Foundation, powder, liner. Her hands were light and quick. She painted my lips a deep, blood-red shade, then swept eyeliner across my eyelids, dragging the brush out to form sharp wings.
I watched myself disappear in the mirror.
With every curl, every swipe of mascara, every dab of lip gloss, I became a different person.
All the while, I sat naked and silent, my skin covered in goose bumps. This was meant to be humiliating, and it was.
No one acknowledged the fact that I sat there like livestock being groomed for display.
