Total pages in book: 98
Estimated words: 90778 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 454(@200wpm)___ 363(@250wpm)___ 303(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 90778 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 454(@200wpm)___ 363(@250wpm)___ 303(@300wpm)
The woman blinks, her smile faltering for a split second before she recovers and goes into overdrive. “Of course, Sir. Right this way, Madam,” she chirps, ushering us toward a section filled with shimmering gowns that scream old money.
Raven does me proud, her head tilts up slightly, her posture straightens, and she strides forward like she owns the place. I trail behind them, my eyes narrowing. We’re playing a game, and I can’t tell if I’m the one setting the rules or if she is.
Raven runs her fingers over the fabric of a silver dress, her expression unreadable. “This one’s nice,” she says lightly, her voice calm and detached, like she’s picking out groceries instead of something worth more than most people’s rent.
“Try it on,” I order, my arms crossed.
She doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t argue. She walks to the fitting room with the poise of someone who’s used to getting what she wants and the assistant follows meekly behind carrying the dress.
When she comes out, the dress clings to her curves in a way that makes my throat tighten. The diamantes catch the light, and I almost hate how perfect she looks. How impossible it is not to want her. She twirls once, her lips curving into a smile that’s almost mocking.
“Well?” she asks robotically. “Do I look like your queen yet?”
“Not yet. Try the next one,” I mutter.
She disappears again, and I lean against the plush sofa and watch the changing room curtain like a hawk. Each dress she tries is more breathtaking than the last, but she never lets me see anything beyond cool indifference. It’s infuriating. She’s supposed to love this. This is the pinnacle of everything she has dreamed of all her life. Instead, she’s turning this into a performance, almost an ordeal. This bothers me because if she is the gold-digging bitch I believe her to be, then why does she not seem to be enjoying this shopping experience. Unless this too is an act. I know from experience she is a consummate and highly skilled actress. I certainly fell for her act.
“Stunning,” I say dryly when she emerges in a pale gold gown that makes her look almost untouchable. I take a sip of the iced lemon tea one of the sales assistants served me. “We’ll take them all.”
“Of course,” she replies smoothly, her smile never wavering. “Thank you, Earl. I’ve always wanted these.”
I frown.
“Where next?” she asks, and the way she emphasizes the last word sets my teeth on edge. She’s mocking me. I know she is, but I can’t call her out without sounding ridiculous. Instead, I nod to the sales assistant who has now been joined by others who can’t seem to do enough to keep me happy. They rush off to wrap up the purchase.
When we move to the next boutique and the game continues, I pick the most extravagant pieces I can find—a gown with intricate beadwork, a fur-lined coat, a pair of shoes that could pay someone’s mortgage. Raven tries them all without complaint, each time stepping out of the fitting room with a brilliant smile that never reaches her eyes.
“Do I meet your standards now?” she asks as she poses in a red velvet dress.
“Not yet, but you’re getting there,” I reply, my voice clipped.
She laughs softly, the sound grating. “Well, then. Let’s not stop now. I wouldn’t want to disappoint.”
By the time we’re halfway through the next high-end boutique, I can feel the tension mounting. I know she’s tired, and I know she hates it, but she won’t give me the satisfaction of seeing it. She walks with her head held high, her movements graceful. She’s winning, and I hate it. Somehow she has beaten me at my own game. Frustration boils under my skin.
“Living the dream, aren’t you?” I say as the associate hands her another piece. “All this—everything you’ve ever wanted.”
She turns to me. “Exactly,” she says sweetly. “And you’re so generous for making it happen.”
She turns away before I can respond, and heads toward the fitting room, but I don’t miss the way her shoulders stiffen. She’s holding it together, but I’m wearing her down.
Or so I think.
The moment she returns, dressed in her own clothes, she hands the sales assistant the last gown without a word and walks towards the till, I catch a glimpse of her reflection in the mirror as she passes—her face pale, her lips pressed into a thin line. She’s not okay.
By the time I join her she looks composed again, like nothing’s happened. But I see the strain in her eyes, the exhaustion she’s trying so hard to hide.
I hand the smiling assistant my card, my voice colder than ice. “Bag everything. Deliver it to my wife at the address associated with the credit card.”
“Of course, Sir,” she replies.