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Chapter Seventeen
RORY
Islept so well.
The bed is so soft and fluffy, I don’t ever want to get out of it. I try to ignore my phone alarm and roll over, cuddling into Mischief’s back, but he wiggles in my arms and starts licking my face.
“Fine,” I grumble. “I’m getting up.” I flop onto my back and blink open my eyes. The satin sheets twist around my legs as I smack my hand onto the side table, searching for my phone.
I manage to stop the alarm and lie there as I wake up. The sun is shining in through the many windows, and it feels strange to be waking here, but I don’t have a lot of time to dwell on it. I need to get dressed and get going. I can’t be late for my first day at work.
Slipping from the bed, I head to the bathroom and wash my face, use the toilet, then brush and floss my teeth. I find an outlet inside one of the cabinets, a perfect place to charge my wire from Bronson without it being so out of place on a countertop. Even though I know it’ll be hidden, I’m still uneasy about having a wire here. They could find it and hurt me, or worse.
Shaking my head free of those thoughts, I decide I need coffee before I wade through the clothes, makeup, and hair supplies. As I pad across the cool floor toward the kitchen, I shiver a bit from the temperature. My nipples pebble under the lace teddy I slept in.
Blinking, it takes me a moment to understand the messy, scrawled note on the spotless island. Written in the same handwriting as one of the notes I received yesterday, all it says isLot 213and has a key on top of it. I pick it up, eyeing the Ferrari symbol on it. Is this a fucking key to a fucking Ferrari? They want me to drive a sports car to work?
Fuck, I definitely need coffee.
I place it down gently and head around the island and into the kitchen to see the coffee already brewed. I pour myself a mug, relishing the fact that I actually have sugar and creamer to sweeten it before refreshing Mischief’s water and food. On the bowl is another note.
He will be walked.
Shaking my head, I cup my hands around the mug and wander through the living room, drawn to the floor to ceiling windows. Sipping the warm, rich coffee, I lean into the windows and watch the city before me with a sigh. I wish I could spend all day lazing around, but I need to get ready, so I head back into the bedroom to do just that.
I open the door to the dressing room and still, a spike of fear and desire flowing through me. Lying on the chair is an outfit—a tight black, knee-length designer skirt with a pair of black Louboutins perched beneath it. Draped over the back of the chair is a gray, silk blouse, and stuck to the front of it is a note with the same harsh writing.
Wear this.
Someone was in here while I slept. Someone watched me sleep. It didn’t even compute with the other notes, but after caffeine and seeing this, it’s obvious. Someone was here while I was vulnerable. They were here long enough to pick out clothes and leave a note, and I heard nothing. I shiver and look around, wondering how long they were here and what else they did.
I frown at Mischief… Some guard dog he is.
I lift up the shirt and my blood turns cold, because another item is waiting for me below it. Composed of elegant lace and twisting straps is a matching set of bra and panties. Picking up the fabric, I hold it in my hands, noting it’s see-through and completely obscene. But I don’t have time to regard it any longer because my phone alarm goes off again, letting me know I only have forty minutes to get ready. Flicking it off, I put down my mug and prop my hands on my hips, eyeing the outfit. Some part of me wants to defy the order and choose my own clothes, but I also need to get on their good side. So like a good little girl, I do as I’m told.
I strip from the teddy, slip on the bra and panties, and put on deodorant before heading to the dressing table at the back, sighing when I find another note. Curling irons and a brush are set out with a note stuck to them.
Curl your hair.
A green makeup bag is perfectly placed next to it with another note.
Use this.
I unzip it and eye the small amount of makeup, just the exact amount I need to do my face—bright red lipstick, some brown eyeshadow, a contour palette, foundation, mascara, and some other bits I don’t know what to do with. Okay then. Looks like they are controlling everything. A part of me simmers in anger at that, while another wants to do it just to see their reaction when they realize I did exactly as I was told.
Sitting on the chair, I plug in a curling iron as I finger brush my hair before running some frizz serum through it, partitioning it off to curl. I also put makeup primer on, which I find in the drawer, before applying my foundation and concealer. While that’s setting, I curl the first section of my hair and hairspray it.
I do my eyes, eyebrows, and contour next while my hair is still back from my face before curling the rest. Once it’s all styled in loose curls, I set it with more hairspray and fluff it up before applying my lipstick. Leaning in, I glide the smooth matte across my lips to make them pop, and then I eye myself in the mirror.
I freeze.
I look good, really fucking good. The tones match my skin well and make me sparkle. I look classy and confident and oh so fucking sexy, especially with my breasts pushed up in the lingerie.
Shit, they are good.
Turning away, I unplug the curling iron and put on some expensive perfume, which smells like heaven, and head back to the clothes. I didn’t even notice, but next to the outfit is a purse already filled with stuff I may need. I add some makeup and perfume as well before I spot the glittering jewelry next to it. Sighing, I add the diamond earrings and matching necklace, the stones heavy and cold against my skin. I instantly feel ten times sexier just standing there dripping in diamonds and sexy panties, but I shake it off and add the rings before slipping into the clothes. I tuck in the blouse and straighten it before sliding into the perfectly sized heels.
I feel incredible. The clothes are buttery soft and fit me like a glove, enhancing my every curve. I feel so fucking good, like a rich woman. Even if it’s all a lie, it reminds me a bit of that filmPretty Woman.
