Chapter 13
Jolie—present day
Woodrow not hearing me should have been a sign. A sign to get the fuck out of that room and as far away as possible.
They say people never learn, and God, that was true.
If I was a little smarter, I’d have been in the lobby, awaiting the police before he’d finished his morning scrub, instead of being dragged through it now—hours later—in that damn fancy dress.
I stayed at the bathroom door, gentle knuckles tapping the wood as I called his name like an idiot, all the while, knowing, why it was, he wouldn’t answer.
No one answered to the wrong name.
He didn’t rush out, taking his time to do whatever it was he was doing. I retreated to the edge of the bed, sitting with my legs folded beneath crumpled bedsheets, a position that hid my fear. And that was where he found me.
For a short time, he ignored me, doing something on a phone that was probably smarter than either of us.
We spent hours up in the room doing our own thing; me, daydreaming and talking to myself, and him, watching with a strange amusement on his face, as the device in his hand started to bore him.
Then we spent more hours getting me ready for the day ahead. Hell told me it had taken him that long to make me pretty. . . well, presentable. Those were his exact words.
And they cut deep.
Especially after the hours I spent with Woodrow.
But this wasn’t Woodrow.
Hell handed me tools and makeup to hide the stress on my face.
I spent most of the day sitting on the floor at the foot of the floor-length mirror, plastering on mineral foundations and blushers, only for him to look at me in complete disgust.
He wasn’t gentle when he dropped to his knees and scrubbed at my scars, removing the caked-on makeup from the crevices on my face. My skin tingled from the multiple washes, and my old wounds threatened to bleed from his touch.
On the fourth attempt of applying my makeup mask, my skin grew sensitive, every drag of the brush hurt my cheeks, and the makeup became harder to apply with tears running down them.
He told me that I’d dolled myself up like a cheap hooker, and despite looking nothing like her, I reminded him of his mother.
And then he reminded me how much he hated her.
My cheeks burned for a whole new reason. The giant handprint marring my skin smudged my blusher, and I found myself reaching for another makeup wipe, a dollop of facial scrub in the center.
On the fifth attempt, I became presentable. He didn’t scrub me.
He stared at me with a smile that made him dangerously handsome before he pulled me by the arm from the floor.
Part of me wanted to believe he chose to grip my bicep because my hand was still causing me pain, but another part of me thought it was because he didn’t think I’d take his hand. . . and I wouldn’t have.
In the middle of the room, he let me go, and he moved to the window to retrieve my dress from where it hung. He stripped me of his tee and dressed me—literallydressed me, like I was a child, unable to do it myself—in the dress he’d selected for our forced marriage and the shoes to match.
He bent at the knee to adjust my skirts to hide the cut he’d sliced through the bodice, pinning it in place with some kind of pin or clip. And while down on one knee, he had another offering.
I cringed wondering what kind of proposal it would be.
He retrieved a small mask from an internal jacket pocket—lace, like my dress, but embedded with tiny black stones, shining like the ring, housing a black diamond, sitting on my finger.
He climbed to his full height, towering above me, his dark shadow pinning me down, making me feel shorter than I was.
The lace kissed my cheeks as he placed the mask on my face, covering the left side completely.
