“You think I’m just a doll. A doll that’s pink and light.
A doll you can arrange any way you like.”
—Harley Quinn
Mama didn’t believe in television, so Frankie and I used to slip into a neighboring trailer where an elderly woman, known endearingly as ‘Batshit Crazy Betsy,’ let us borrow her cable to indulge in our addiction of reality television and the Home Network channel. I’ve seen my fair share of fancy properties from that little box TV sitting on her kitchen counter.
This place pales them all in comparison.
When Stella first led me outside through the back door, the quaint garden I’d glimpsed from within the living room greeted me. The same massive hedges lining the front driveway circled the garden’s border like a fence. Which is why I was so surprised when she revealed a thin opening hidden behind a cherry tree. We passed through it and continued beyond the wall of shrubbery.
I never expected to see the quarter-mile field of grass leading to another,largermansion.
It’s a secret guesthouse—if a mansion this big could be calledsecret—with intricate moldings decorating its exterior and the kind of terraces that keep guests like me in awe. This building is narrow enough to hide behind its counterpart, yet twice the size of the front house in length.
We cross over a slim driveway, and Stella stops as we approach the mahogany front door. It automatically unlocks with a distinct click. My brows furrow, and I shift my head upward. Sure enough, there’s a small, black bowl protruding from the door’s archway, the kind that hides a camera so you can’t tell which way it’s pointing.
I’m not yet sure whether the knowledge that we’re being monitored so closely should make me feel safer or more uneasy. How closely were they watching Frankie?
I follow Stella into the foyer, and my movements slow as I look around with wide eyes. This building might match the front house on the exterior—all soft earth tones and elegant designs—but the interior is something else entirely. Our dresses blend right into the jet-black walls. Polished, white marble stretches beneath our heels, enhancing every click with an echo that bounces off the corners.
The constantclick-clackgrates on my ears, but the dark settles around me like a soft blanket. Shadows soothe the goose bumps on my bare arms. The pumping in my veins calms. At least, in this place, the deceptions are gone. No frills or frosting to dress up and distract from the truth.
Each massive room we pass looks identical to the next in style. The furniture is minimal, modern, and in only the purest shades of black or white. The few windows hide behind velvety black curtains, rendering the entire place dim and shadowed in a way that should probably send a shiver down my spine.
It doesn’t.
Three women casually stroll from one room to the next. Each of them is blond, stunning enough to make me do a double take, and wearing high-end dresses and heels similar to mine and Stella’s. They also wear thin scarves around their necks like Stella’s, except only one matches hers—gold. The others are blue and red.
The scarves seem to be the only splashes of color in the entire building, other than the occasional piece of abstract art hanging from the walls.
Something icy uncurls in my stomach as I watch the women come and go. The sensation hits me with a sting, deep in my gut, because at first glance any one of these young women could be mistaken for Frankie. Tall, blonde, tan, curves in all the right places. Beautiful enough to appear photoshopped.
I’m attractive, but it’s the kind of beautiful men only appreciate until a girl like them—like Frankie—enters a room and wipes any trace of me away.
Ordinarily that wouldn’t bother me, but with my thick, black hair falling straight down my back, ivory skin, and a petite frame that barely reaches 5’ 6” in these four-inch heels, I’m chillingly aware of how much I stand out next to the others. How much attention my mere presence here might draw. How long do I have before one of the girls—or worse, the Matthews—gets suspicious?
I nod toward a girl nearest us, who’s setting a fresh bouquet of roses on a glass table. “Will I be getting a scarf?”
Stella follows my gaze. “If all goes according to plan.”
We reach a pair of tinted glass doors. Once they open automatically for us, Stella leads me through a short hallway, and soon we’re in a sterile room with a wide desk before us. She steps forward and rings a silver call bell.
I can hear thatclick-clackof heels well before another stunning woman appears. With vibrant red locks spilling over one shoulder, she’s the first non-blonde I’ve seen. The left half of her head is closely shaven, accentuating her heart-shaped face and adding a distinct edge to features that would otherwise be considered soft and dainty.
When her gaze meets mine, she doesn’t smile. Doesn’t nod. Doesn’t greet me in the least. I watch in admiration at the way she moves with such natural, confident ease behind her desk to slide a sheet of paper into a drawer. Then she leans her hip against the oak wood and eyes Stella expectantly.
“She’s ready to begin phase two,” Stella says, gesturing to me. She peeks at her black wristwatch and adds, “Be sure to have her prepped by dinner. They’ll be expecting her.”
“What exactly will they—” I start, but Stella takes my hand in hers and squeezes.
“Relax, Emmy. Aubrey here is the best of the best. She’ll get you in tip-top shape for presentation and have the Matthews fighting over who gets to claim you.” Her proud smile makes me doubt whether she realizes how strange her words are.
Presentation.Claim. Am I really the only one here who thinks these are not normal terms to drop into casual conversation?
My gaze shifts to the redhead, Aubrey, whose lips quirk when she takes in my expression. Then her green eyes scan me up and down in a brisk assessment. “Consider it done.”
“Very well. I’ll leave you to it, then.” Stella nods and exits the room.
