Chapter Six
Charlotte
I’m standing nextto a bench in Central Park, allowing my mother to fuss with my hair yet again when I spot him.
My supposed future husband making his way toward us with his hands in his pockets, as if he hadn’t a care in the world.
He’s late. What else is new? He’ll probably be late to our wedding.
Which he can’t be. I need him right now—more than he knows. If I can’t move out of my house before the wedding, then I’m going to do everything I can to make sure it happens so I can get out of the house and away from the man who’s supposed to love and protect me.
My father.
He’s awful. Mean. He treats me like a possession rather than a person, and he’s bartering my life in order to gain some unknown advantage I will most likely never be privy to.
I know Perry has zero desire to marry me, and I can’t blame him. But if I can somehow convince him to go along with my plan so I can eventually be free of my father?
This could work. I’d pay Perry if I had to. I’d do anything to get away from my father.
Anything.
“Finally, he shows up,” my mother mutters, her fingers twisting around one of my curls. I pull away before she ruins it completely, making her gasp. “I’m just trying to fix it.”
“It’s fine,” the photographer yells from where she stands, her giant camera clutched in her hands. The woman is tiny, with an oversized denim shirt on, white jeans, and her dyed black hair cut in a severe bob. Black, thick-rimmed glasses frame her eyes, making them appear bigger than they actually are. “She looks beautiful.”
I duck my head, my cheeks growing warm at the compliment, something I don’t hear often since I don’t spend a lot of time with people, beyond those who work in our home. I certainly feel beautiful in my powder-blue dress. And confident.
Maybe it’s because of the skirt.
The day after our dinner with Perry and his mother, I voluntarily went shopping by myself—something I rarely do—and bought the dress without seeking my mother’s approval first. Another thing I rarely do.
I knew from the moment I spotted the dress hanging on the rack that it was perfect. I didn’t even bother trying it on.
When I arrived home later and showed the pale blue dress to her, I could tell she didn’t like it. Maybe it was the way she scrunched up her nose. And how she pursed her lips.
“It’s rather…short,” she said, worry lacing her tone.
Her response left me satisfied that I made the right choice. I wanted to tell her that was the entire point, but she’d disapprove, so I kept my mouth shut. After Perry made that remark about my legs after dinner, I knew I had to show them off for him again. And this dress shows them off to perfection.
The neckline also dips low, offering a glimpse of my cleavage, which isn’t much. But I’m definitely showing more skin than the first time I met him. Why I want to show off for him like this, I don’t really want to examine at the moment, because I implied to him that I didn’t like the way he checked me out.
The way he called my breaststits.And that shitty little smirk on his face after he said it, knowing that he irritated me. Like he got off on it.
How his gaze kept sliding down to my legs instead of looking into my eyes.
As I mulled over those little moments later that night in bed, unable to sleep, I came to a realization.
I rather liked the way he called my breasts tits.
And proclaimed himself a leg man.
How he teased me, yet also got a little growly, especially when I started calling him names.
I don’t know what possessed me to behave that way. To be so bold. Maybe because he actually listened to me. Even when he made me angry, he was still paying attention, and that’s something I don’t get too often.
Attention.
I’m a sad little creature, right? But it’s true. My parents neglected me. My two older brothers don’t give me a moment’s consideration and my baby brother, Crew, was my very best friend until he turned thirteen and transformed into a true Lancaster male seemingly overnight.