“Yes. Oh, didn’t I mention it?” I love playing these little games with my wide-eyed viper. “Your parents.”
11
LUCRETIA
I stay in my closet until I hear Mateo leave. He whistles as he closes the door, his steps receding down the hallway.
I know why he’s in a good mood. The dress hanging in my closet barely has enough fabric to qualify as clothing. He’s set me up to look even more ridiculous so he can laugh and mock me in front of my parents.
Pacing back and forth, I try to decide what to do. I’m not wearing this damned neon-pink get-up, and I won’t be greeting my mother and father as a French maid. Which means I’m screwed. The next time I walk past the pink monstrosity, I yank it off the hanger and slam it against the back of the closet.
“Fuck you, Mateo.” I don’t know why he hates me or what he thinks I’ve done, but it doesn’t matter. He has me under his thumb, and I have to find a way to survive before I’m crushed by him. Burying my head in the sand isn’t going to save me. He’s already proven he’ll enforce his will on me. I stop when I think about how I came on his fingers, the way I moaned.
“Ugh!” I press my hands to my cheeks and shake my head. I don’t understand him. He’s cruel, but he hasn’t hurt me. Not the way I expected him to, anyway. But the night is young, I remind myself.
I resume pacing, my mind trying to pick apart the lock that is Mateo Milani. But there are no answers in this dark closet. The only place where I might get some insight is downstairs when my parents arrive. But that’s not without a whole host of other issues—namely that my father sold me to a homicidal maniac without so much as a blink of the eye. And my mother agreed.
“No more tears.” I swipe angrily at my cheeks, then lean against the wall and try to think of some sort of plan. But I was never the one with strategy. That was Ferdinand. He wouldn’t have let me fall into Mateo’s hands. He would’ve kept me safe, not thrown me to the wolf. But he’s not here. I am. I have to save myself, but I just don’t know how.
One thing is certain—I can’t hide in here all night. Mateo will come for me.
I stand straight again and wipe my cheeks. This impossible situation isn’t getting any better, so I stomp out of my closet and into the bedroom. I glance at the bed. I suppose I could make another toga. I take a step toward it, then pause and turn toward Mateo’s closet. My palms go sweaty, mainly because I don’t know how he’ll punish me for what I’m about to do. But it doesn’t stop me.
With sure strides, I go to the closet door and yank it open. Rows of suits, shirts, pants, and every item of clothing a man could need greet me. Everything designer, everything bespoke to fit Mateo perfectly. I drag my fingers across the expensive fabrics. He may not care if I walk around here half naked, but he certainly spends plenty on his own wardrobe. I grip one of his fine blazers and yank it off the hanger.
“Asshole.” I drop it to the floor and grind my heel into the fine wool. It’s a tiny rebellion, but it makes me feel better. It gives me some sense of control, even if it’s fleeting.
I keep walking until I get to his dress shirts. Dozens of them, all neatly pressed and hanging in a perfect row. I peer at each of them until I come to a white one with faint blue stripes. This will do. I pull it down, then walk deeper into the closet until I come to several sets of drawers. I find ties, handkerchiefs, cuff links, and finally, belts.
“You’ll do fine.” I snatch the black Gucci belt from the drawer, then strip out of my ridiculous costume and pull on his shirt.
It smells like fresh linen, but it also has his scent. His soap, or his cologne, or whatever it is he uses. I put the sleeve to my nose and sniff, then force myself to stop and pretend that it smells terrible and I hate it. After all, I do loathe the man, even if he smells good.
Once I have it buttoned, I cinch the belt around my waist. There are no belt holes for me to use the buckle, But I make it work with some tucking and tightening.
Leaving the closet, I head to the bathroom and run some water, using it to smooth my hair down. Then I scrub the remnants of the old mascara from beneath my eyes until I look relatively decent. I still have puffiness, but I’m not too bad.