Page 98 of Thin Lives

She felt so … out of it lately.

There wasn’t a better word to describe it.

The rest of the world and people around her were still moving, doing their thing and going on like nothing was wrong or amiss. In Emma’s world, everything was off-centered.

She wasn’t sure how long she wandered around the store, pawing through clothes and letting her mind wander, but when she peeked her head up to look at her surroundings, she realized the store had quite a few people in it. It took her a minute to zone in on her enforcer across the floor, checking his watch, and looking like he was in the very last place he wanted to be.

Thankfully, the man didn’t bother her much.

He rarely spoke.

She couldn’t complain.

Emma figured the enforcer would notice her making a beeline for the changing rooms in the back, and follow behind as he usually did, so she didn’t bother trying to get his attention as she headed that way. Despite the amount of people in the store, the line of dressing rooms were mostly quiet but for one or two women handing clothes back and forth to one another over the top of one door to try on.

She disappeared behind one dressing room door, locked it, and hung the six dresses she had picked up on the hook. For a long moment, Emma just stared at herself in the mirror. She had long become accustomed to the mask staring back at her—it had been a part of her daily ritual from the moment she woke up as Affonso Donati’s wife.

The flawless makeup.

Perfect hair.

Clothes without a wrinkle.

Smile in place.

Unhappiness tucked safely away.

Complaints invisible.

Emma didn’t like being alone with this person staring at her in the mirror. It felt like someone else—someone who wasn’t her—was watching her, judging her. Her reflection was simply a distraction for everyone else around her, to keep them from looking too deeply, where they would find her sadness sat upon a throne of disappointment.

People saw her as a queen.

Emma felt more like a prisoner.

And that … that was an awful way to live.

Needing to get the hell away from those thoughts as fast as she possibly could, Emma reached for the first dress hanging off the hook, and pulled it from the hanger. She wasted no time taking her clothes off, and slipping on the silk blue dress that hugged her curves. Despite not being able to do a lot while pregnant, she hadn’t gained a great deal of weight, which meant she didn’t have a lot to lose after Cross was born.

Her hips were slightly wider, and her waist wasn’t as tiny as it had been, but she wore those changes proudly. She did put the small gym room in the basement of the Donati home to good use at least once a day when Cross was feeling up to sitting in his bouncy chair and watching his mother run on a treadmill.

That, more than anything else, had helped to flatten her stomach back down.

Emma found she loved running. It was freeing, even if she was running to nowhere. She could push her limits, run until her legs ached and her lungs burned. She didn’t have to stop until sweat covered her clothes and she just couldn’t move anymore.

It was a sort of relief that she hadn’t known existed before.

She was grateful for it, now.

Emma tried on another two dresses before a soft voice called out, “Is there an Emma Donati back here?”

A brief flicker of fear passed through Emma.

Still, she called out, “Dressing room number four.”

She heard the soft click of heels just outside the door before the woman tossed a red garment into the room, and it landed in Emma’s arms. Then, one of the store’s bags with their logo was also thrown over the door. She stared at the red dress, unsure and wary in her heart.

“Your husband asked me to bring this one back, Mrs. Donati,” the woman explained. “He said you would understand why. He has paid for this dress, and asked that you put your clothes in the bag, and come out with the red dress on. He’s ready to leave when you are.”