Page 95 of Beautiful Scars

“I’ve had just about all the fat-shaming I can handle today,” I mutter, reaching around to the pearl buttons running down my spine.

“But—”

“Are you going to help me or not?” I push the words through my teeth.

Sarah nods and puts her notebook down on the carpet before coming up behind me and undoing my buttons.

A few minutes later, I’m standing there in my shift, the wedding dress doing a good job of remaining upright all by itself. Sarah bends down to pick up her notebook, and starts flipping through the pages again, so I quickly slip out of the flimsy fabric and grab my T-shirt.

Besides moving me to my own room—which is always locked when I’m by myself—Cillian also bought me some regular clothes to wear instead of just whatever dress shirt he had on at the time.

I turn, reaching for my jeans, when I see Sarah’s eyes glued on my midriff.

Shit, she saw my scar.

“What?” I ask in a hoarse voice.

“Oh, nothing.”

I step into my jeans, narrowing my eyes at her. “What did you want to ask?” I say, hoping it will derail the inevitable conversation speeding my way.

“The, uh, the favors. Cillian said to do something ‘nice’ but I don’t have a clue what—”

“Somethingnice?” I repeat, pausing as I button up my jeans. I kick the dress’s train out of the way so I can walk out of the room. “He wouldn’t know nice if it bit him on the fucking ankle.”

“Meisie?”

I stop with my hand on the door handle.

“Uh, it’s just—”

“I’m going to make a sandwich,” I say, turning to her without taking my hand off the handle. “Would you like to come with, or do you prefer handcuffing me to my bed and making me one yourself again?”

She follows me halfway across the room. I wonder, would she actually tackle me if I made a run for it? Everyone knows I can’t be alone outside my room. And if I want my door unlocked, I have to be cuffed to my bed. Cillian’s orders. And since I despise having to ring the hotel-style bell on my nightstand every time I want to pee in my en-suite bathroom, I opt for the locked-door policy.

The only time I’m allowed even a modicum of freedom is when I’m being fitted for my wedding dress.

“Is it lunchtime already?” she asks, slipping her phone from her pocket to check the time.

“I’m hungry.”

“Okay, I’ll make you something.” She walks past me, and I time my groan perfectly. Sarah pauses in the corridor outside the room and then looks back at me. Then she beckons me to follow. “Come on.”

Thank God.

I hate the fact that I follow her like a lost puppy who’s smelled food, but I guess that’s exactly what I am.

She leads me into the kitchen, and I try to hide the fact that I’m scanning the place to see if anything’s been left open.

It’s been two weeks.

Two weeks, and I still haven’t managed to escape. In my defense, I wasn’t actively trying to escape the entire time. Those first few days after Cillian and I got to know each other in the biblical sense, escape was the furthest thing from my mind. That was when I thought the man I’d slept with had a beating heart inside his perfectly sculpted chest.

Oh boy, was I wrong.

Now every second where I’m not confronted with the reality that I’m days away from my own reluctant wedding, I try and plot my way out of this mansion, past the guards, and back home where I belong.

I came here looking for Grace.