Total pages in book: 83
Estimated words: 77485 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 387(@200wpm)___ 310(@250wpm)___ 258(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77485 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 387(@200wpm)___ 310(@250wpm)___ 258(@300wpm)
Dresses in the style of 1950s fashion, shirts paired with skirts, and even a few pairs of sweatpants that looked out of place among the refinement.
Designer heels of varying heights and color stood proudly, waiting to be chosen. A collection of matching handbags was lined up above them. I found that a little sardonic, given I couldn’t think of too many places I’d be carrying a purse. Nonetheless, someone had put thought into every detail, an effort I couldn’t fathom.
I’d always envied the women that stepped out looking like they had a filter on. I’d attempted it only once, and after hours of attempting to blend and contour, I could’ve passed as an extra in Killer Klowns. If I wasn’t going to work, I wore whatever was comfortable for a day of simple errands or lounging.
"Why is everything so formal?" I couldn't help but voice my bewilderment.
“Within our community, tradition holds a special place. Women here dress as women should—a reflection of timeless elegance and sophistication.”
As he spoke, he traced a finger along one of the delicate dresses, his gaze lingering on me with an intensity that sent a shiver down my spine. I quickly diverted my attention elsewhere, exploring the room further. His explanation described this space perfectly. It was the wardrobe of a refined housewife who knew class was essential.
I slowly walked around, careful not to show how sore I was, cognizant he was watching my every move. It could’ve been my imagination or overthinking things, but I believed he got pleasure from the pain he caused me in bed. I wasn’t going to willingly be the supply to his demand.
Beyond a leather ottoman was a wall adorned with long mirrors, their shined glass casting an illusion of endless space.
To the right of this, an ornate vanity stood with meticulous organization—a trove of makeup, perfume bottles, and an assortment of hair tools. Could this all have belonged to someone else? Had another woman stood in this very spot once, taking it all in? Or had she been used to this exuberant level of wealth?
I turned towards him. “Did these things belong to your wife?”
His response was accompanied by a gaze as deep and golden as autumn leaves, his countenance a veil of stoicism. Beneath that, a ripple of irritation seemed to surface, though his expression remained shuttered. “I would never give you hand-me-downs, and I wouldn’t ever allow anything a woman from my past may have even touched to so much as brush against your skin.”
I heard what he was saying but couldn’t quite believe it. This couldn’t have been done in a day or two.
Glancing up, I saw the second level held even more clothing. It was truly like a mini department store, only organized ten times better. Pensive, I looked back at Mr. Hawthorne—Alexander.
“You were married, weren’t you? Doesn’t that mean she was someone important? I’m only here because you forced me to be, for however long I’m a novelty. It just makes more sense to me.”
“Novelty?” His eyes seemed to darken for a moment, a subtle shift in his expression that didn't go unnoticed before his inscrutable mask was back in place. His tone held a hint of reproach. “Do not downplay what you mean to me by insinuating you're some spontaneous fuck or random whore.”
His fingers brushed against the fabric of another dress before he turned his gaze back to me.
“These were never for anyone but you. Every stitch, every fabric, every color was chosen specifically for you.”
“I don’t—”
“Everything in this room belongs to you and only you—just as I do."
His words were heavy with conviction, a possessive force that was both unnerving and gave me a strange sense of belonging. I did my best to shake it off and continued to look around, so I didn’t have to hold his stare.
“So, I’m the only woman that’s ever stepped foot in here?”
“No woman has ever been in this room, or our bed. One didn’t make it into the house.”
One didn’t make it? Just how many wives did this man have? He’d mentioned being a widow and a husband but never specified what that meant.
At my silence, he gestured towards the rows of clothing that surrounded us, his voice taking on an undertone of command I was beginning to think came naturally to him. It wasn’t something he chose to do—he simply did it.
"Pick an outfit, deliciae. Choose something that resonates with you."
I glanced around the room, overwhelmed by the sheer variety of choices before me. Anything would be better than the robe, but I wasn’t sure what to grab. A smile curved his lips as he stepped closer, his gaze never leaving mine.
"Allow me," he murmured as he pulled out a dress with a sense of purpose. “Wear this one.”
I looked it over and almost nodded in approval. It had the same era about it as the others, its elegant design evoking an aura of sophistication.