“Okay,” I pep-talk myself, “You need to get a grip on yourself. Take the second-best thing, and the moment you’re home, you can change into your comfort clothes. Get your stupid arse up, right now.”
I indeed get up.
I pick out an oversized black blouse, roll up the sleeves, and take one of the shorter soft-fabric trousers. I stuff the blouse messily into the pants so it doesn't look like I am one fat ball, remove the hair towel, glance once in the mirror, ruffle my towel-dry hair to loosen it, and get out of the closet before I lose my mind.
I get out of the bedroom and am confronted with a corridor and a thousand doors.
What the hell,I curse as I open door after door—only to find everything but a kitchen or dining room. I dearly miss Bella’s and my two-bedroom flat.
When I’m done on the upper floor, I head down to the first floor, think it over, and decide to check downstairs first.
I peek in the library, find something like a dressing room, and a kitchen, but no Victoria.
I can’t do this. I am done.
I stand in the middle of the entrance hall, cold tiles underneath my bare feet, when I shout, “Victoria, where the hell are you?”
Shall she call me crazy, blatant, or idiotic, but I’m not searching an entire manor.
“Up here,” she says, and when I look up, she leans casually overthey banister on the first floor. My hands become fists as I breathe in and out. Breathing.
“You look stressed,” she says.
“I am,” I say as I walk up the stairs. “I am in clothing I do not like, after opening a bazillion doors, my feet are cold, and I couldn’t find you.”
She chuckles and says, “You express your discomfort, good.”
I stop and stare at her.
“You did this on purpose?” I ask.
“I absolutely did,” she says, “You’re growing already.”
I curse under my breath and mumble, “A good morning and tea would’ve been sufficient.”
I still don’t know what to make of it.
Victoria gestures to a door leading to a study with a table by the windows overlooking the grounds.
“Sit down and drink your tea,” she says. I can’t shake the feeling that she seems cold and distant.
“Is something wrong?” I ask her, not sitting down.
“Sit down and have the tea,” she says.
So something is wrong.
A sensation of horror floods through me. She didn’t like it. I must’ve done something wrong—or she dislikes my body after all. Maybe?—
“Nothing has changed on my end,” she says as if she read my mind. “Sit and drink.”
I sit, but don’t drink. I can feel something is not right.
“What’s going on?” I ask. “Something is going on, and I need to know what.”
She looks at me and takes a sip of her own tea before she speaks.
“You will not freak out,” she says. “You will listen and don’t interrupt until I am done talking, and I assure you I am taking care of the situation.”
