There’s no self-deprecation in her tone—it’s a neutral observation, stated as a fact.
And it sinks to my core in a way I don’t know how to react to, except to just… accept it. Or start to, anyway.
A soft smile finds my lips. “You tend to attract out-of-the-mold people, don’t you?”
“Everyone else is boring,” Morgan says with a shrug.
“There was a point to all this, um… oh. Right. So, I’ve been… shoving myself into a mold, I guess. And this is something I feel like… Iknow… I want to do. For myself. I want to throw myself into this, to unleash, to let this…creatureout that has been suffocating. I want to be…primal. I want to bechasedandpinned, I want you to make mebleed. I want to claw you back and…” My heart flutters, my mouth is dry. I force a hard swallow. “I’m sorry, thatdoessound insane, I—”
Morgan catches my chin in her hand. “No, it doesn’t.”
I see it in her eyes. She understands.
“So… please. Let me do this. Forme.”
Morgan takes a deep breath and nods. “Okay.”
Chapter 42
JAMIE
Morgan pulls out a blow dryer to make sure my skin is dry under the collar, then pulls me to my feet.
“Let’s get you dressed and fed.”
She takes me through the bathroom and out a door on the other side, and we step into a massive room that looks like some sort of retail store, but must actually be Morgan’s closet. Black cabinets with smoke-tinted glass doors line the walls along with illuminated shelves of shoes and racks of designer clothes.
There’s a display cabinet in the center of the room with a clear glass top, and diamond bracelets and sapphire necklaces glitter within.
I try not to think about how much the contents of this room cost.
Morgan gestures to the far end, and I head that way, looking for my suitcase.
There’s a set of opaque doors, so I pull those open, but there are just clothes. I’m about to close it when I notice my suit hanging from the inside of the door, freshly dry cleaned. I don’t recognize any of the other clothes—they’re neither Morgan’sstyle nor size.
“I took the liberty of picking some things out for you,” Morgan says, flipping through her own rack. “You’ll like them.”
Some part of my brain quietly says I’m not supposed to like Morgan’s presumption, but as I take a closer look at the clothes in front of me, she’s right.
There are dusters and shawls, slim-cut pants and billowing culottes, button-up shirts with stand collars and oversized sweaters, all unmistakably on-trend. The color palette is utterly me: shades of pink, sage, smoke, and earth, interspersed with punches of tasteful floral print.
So many options.Toomany options.
Morgan anticipated this, too. Hanging inside the other door, opposite my suit, is an outfit already assembled on the hanger. And it’s perfect.
I pull on slim black leggings, the designer’s name printed black-on-black on the exposed waistband, one I recognize from shopping with Eileen.
Next is a cream-colored sleeveless undershirt in an impossibly soft fabric that I half-expect is produced by the rarest silkworm hybrid hand-raised in Nepal or something. Already, the way the fabric hangs off of me is a notch above my usual style, but it’s only the foundation.
What made me instantly commit is the half-jacket, half-shawl made from a woven green fabric with a tone-on-tone leaf print and gold edges. It’s structured over the shoulders, cape-like sleeves drape over my arms, and the front buttons sit tight across my waist. The tail is so long and flowing, it’s practically a dress.
I don’t realize quite how trendy the cut is until I put it on, and I’m sure I’m going to look ridiculous, so I try to sneak a glance in the mirror before Morgan can comment.
But as soon as I see myself, I stop short.
It looks like it was made for me. Madeofme, like a piece of myself has become this garment.
Morgan whistles softly.
