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I checked my reflection in the bathroom mirror, scrutinizing my appearance. Mercifully, my curls had been put back in order, the tight spirals falling around my face in an effortlessly wild, carefree style. The free spirit aesthetic was a carefully constructed lie, my rebellious attempt to assert my individuality and defy my mother’s rigid, orderly definition of female beauty.
The amount of effort I put in to create this look was far too elaborate and meticulous to truthfully reflect the attitude of a free spirit. But the control and calm I found in methodically styling my curls had helped me gain a small sense of personal power as a teenager. I was grateful to have that shred of familiar control back, now that my entire reality had been shattered beyond repair.
My bohemian chic dress enhanced my carefree lie. I ran my fingers over the dove gray fabric, feeling the embroidered floral pattern that was sewn in subtle shades of slate. The loose-fitting garment told the world that I didn’t care about showing off the shape of my feminine curves to their full effect.
But I’d spent hours shopping and sorting through dozens of outfits to select this dress. It completed the image I wanted to present to the world, the deception that I didn’t care about what they thought of my appearance.
Despite my defiance of my mother’s sleek, sophisticated style, I lived within the vain constraints she’d imposed upon me, my insecurities and desire for approval too deeply ingrained to eradicate.
I shook my head slightly, my artfully-designed curls swaying around my face. I might still live in an emotional cage of my mother’s design, but at least I’d decorated the cramped space as my own.
Reminding myself that Mateo was waiting, I got to work polishing my look: a few coats of curling mascara, a soft sweep of blush, a neutral gloss to make my lips shine and pout.
I set down my makeup and took a final assessment.
I looked perfect, my appearance utterly effortless and carefully crafted.
I hoped Mateo liked it.
Taking a deep, fortifying breath, I turned away from the mirror and grabbed up my laptop bag, marveling that I’d been allowed to have it in my possession.
When Valentina had come to visit me yesterday, she’d brought all my clothes from my walk-in closet at my apartment, as well as my beauty products and school supplies.
I’d been wary of her at first. During our initial meeting to discuss the curriculum at UCLA, I’d gotten the impression that she was kind. But I was now aware that she was part of the criminal underworld I’d fallen into. Adrián Rodríguez was a vicious drug lord, and she was deeply in love with him.
My discomfiture was compounded by the fact that my father had kidnapped and terrorized her. She’d covered the marks with makeup, but her efforts hadn’t fully obscured the bruises on her neck.
Had Daddy done that to her?
The thought of my doting father wrapping his hands around Valentina’s throat made me want to vomit.
Even if he hadn’t personally been the one to hurt her, he’d arranged the circumstances that had resulted in the horrific injury.
After her ordeal, the compassionate woman had come to Mateo’s house to comfort me. She’d worried that I was distraught over being held hostage. She’d been brutalized during her abduction, whereas Mateo had been nothing but gentle with me.
Except for when he’d spanked me.
But even that hadn’t been an act of violence. The spanking had stung, but with his immense strength, he could have easily damaged my body if he’d wanted to. Instead, he’d given me the most intense orgasm of my life. My past experiences rubbing my clit with my fingers when I was alone in my bed hadn’t come close to that earth-shattering pleasure.
I closed my eyes and shoved back the wash of grief at the loss of my connection with Mateo. Familiar shame twisted my stomach.
My mother had told me my body was ruined by the marks on my skin, and she’d been right.
I plastered a pleasant smile on my glossed lips and walked down the hallway to rejoin Mateo.
“Okay, I’m ready to go,” I announced when I stepped into the living room.
His attention turned from the hockey game highlights he was watching, his dark eyes focusing on me. His gaze raked over my body, eliciting a small shiver. The intensity of his attention after a day of distance was so overwhelmingly gratifying that it caused palpable pleasure. I drank it in, greedy for his approval and affirmation.
“You look beautiful,” he told me, the rough edge to his tone making my heart lift. Maybe he wasn’t completely disgusted by me.
I was more grateful than ever that Valentina had brought me my full array of dresses and beauty supplies. “Thanks,” I murmured, basking in the praise but also feeling the familiar tinge of anxiety that came along with it. Such praise could always be taken away if I failed to present myself in a pleasing manner in the future.
