I collapsed against the door, feeling it swing open beneath me as I staggered forward and, with an involuntary gasp, the bindings burst free. The dress scratched my back as it fell, the metal clawing as it bent out of shape.
I caught the fabric—if the stiff, binding material could be considered that—and clutched it to my chest. I reached the basin, falling to my knees as my own breathing ravaged me, hyperventilating to the point of dizziness so that I could only lean my head against the cool marble countertop and wait for it to end.
When it finally calmed, I clambered to my feet to survey the damage. In the mirror, my eyes were bloodshot, my lipstick smudged, my hair frayed. But the dress was ruined, the two halves peeling apart like the petals of a tulip. I fumbled for the clasps, trying to bend them back. But then what? Strap myself back into the torture device? Maybe for long enough that I could return and get help? If no one had come for me yet, I assumed no one was on their way.
But they wouldn’t budge, whatever force had made them malleable far stronger than my fumbling fingers.
I couldn’t go out there like this. The press were everywhere. No one would care for the context of a photo like that, Nadine Heywood running through the Shrine Auditorium half naked during the Emmys?
The fabric was barely enough to cover me as it was. If thepaparazzi got hold of even a blurry shot of a sliver of breast, or worse, a nipple, then …
My eyes fluttered closed against the rising panic.Why did this keep happening?Every single time I tried to take back control, dedicate myself to my work, make art thatmeantsomething, here was the slightest thing come to skew the narrative and ruin it.
The door opened, and for just a moment I imagined salvation had come. But, of course, that was never the way luck swung for me.
Harper, of course, like a shark to blood.
I watched her in the mirror, the way her dark eyes flitted across me and the feline smirk that whipped across her face.
“A wardrobe malfunction? How quaint.”
A sudden fear settled. “Was this you?”
Harper laughed. “No, darling, sometimes awful things happen to you without my influence. The show has started, by the way, so I wouldn’t hold out much hope for anyone else to come knocking either.”
I curled my hands tighter and met the reflection of Harper’s gaze.
“Gloat then, if that’s what you’ve come to do.” I tilted my head high and summoned a withering glance. “Another moment without and I might suspect you just want the show.”
Harper’s gaze darkened as it flit down, dismissive and scathing, and while I felt the chill of it, I also could not resist making a similar observation of my own. Still regarding her inthe mirror, like to turn would give her some sort of advantage, I noticed the way Harper’s dress shimmered beneath these fluorescent lights, silver to my gold and flowing like water, so that each gentle curve of her ran like a wave. Her lipstick was pressed into the very corners of her lips, staining her whole mouth a dark and moody red. But what I noticed most were the earrings studded through Harper’s lobes, swollen chrome discs.
I thought of the last time we were in a bathroom together and all that blood. I would go for the earrings first this time, would spit them back out to her.
“I’m not here to watch, Nadine. I’m going to help.” And then, for some inane reason, Harper dropped to a knee.
Her fingers flew to her boots—black leather, biker-style stompers like she used to wear to CADS, only far more expensive. They reached up her delicate calf, stopping just below the knee and leaving a long expanse of bare thigh before her dress cut.
Finally, I turned to look at her. “What are you doing?”
“I’m going to thread the shoelace between the hooks like a corset.”
That … That could work.
Everyone would know, of course. My dress altered, Harper missing a shoelace. That sort of thing didn’t go unnoticed. They’d think us friends, or at least that we’d recovered from our last encounter.
There would be no chance of securing that restraining order.
And, from the glint in Harper’s eye, that’s exactly what she intended.
“Fine,” I bit.
“The words you’re looking for, arethank you,” Harper said, standing up and gesturing for me to spin. I did, and Harper came close behind, shoelace unfurled. Our eyes met in the mirror, Harper so close my spine prickled in anticipation of her touch. “In fact, I think I’d like to hear you say them.”
She held the shoelace out to the side, dangling it like a prize.
Fuck you, I thought—and I was far, far too tempted. I would not do this again—allow myself to become beholden to Harper’s beck and call. But my stomach was tight, my anxiety still thrumming through me, making Harper’s every action an intense and frightful thing.
This was supposed to be a good night. It wasn’t supposed to be, as things were increasingly becoming, about Harper.
