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Logan
She stands next to me, mute and small, with her shoulders up to her ears and a look on her face as if she was readying herself for an imminent attack.
“Relax, will you,” I reprimand her, speaking in a whisper so our personal shopper won’t hear. Her name is Susan and she personifies boring professionalism, dressed in a red blazer and pencil skirt with matching heels, her blond hair in a tight updo, not a single strand astray, and a thick mask of carefully applied make-up. Horrifyingly ordinary and staid—just what I need for Kat.
“This isn’t me,” she whispers back, her eyes darting from one corner to another. A frown emerges on her face as she watches Susan select a few items for her. She needs everything, from pant suits, blouses, skirts and dresses down to tights, socks and shoes. I can’t present her as my fiancé if she looks like a broke college student.
“I’m not paying you to be yourself,” I remind her. “I had no idea Miss Barry doesn’t even pay her girls enough for them to buy proper clothes.”
“She pays well,” Kat insists, throwing me an aggravated look. “I just had other priorities than dolling myself up with the latest fashion trends.”
She glares at me, her sulky words standing between us like a dividing wall. I’m sure her disdain for all of this is born from jealousy rather than actual rejection, but she’ll need to get her head straight for this to work out.
“There’ll be functions for us to appear at,” I tell her. “You’ll have to look your part when I introduce you to people that matter to me.”
“What kind of people?”she probes, a thin line looming between her brows.
“Important people,” I answer—and she rolls her eyes.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”
The warning doesn’t seem to faze her at all. “Do what?”
“Rolling your eyes at me.”
She lets out an amused chuckle. “Oh, does that bother you, Mr. Fancypants?”
“Listen, you—”
“How about these for a start?” Susan interrupts in a high-pitched voice. She’s dragging a garment rack filled with clothes on hangers next to her.
Kat throws me a triumphant grin before she turns her attention toward the personal shopper.
“I thought we’d start with some office attire:suit pants, skirt and blouses,” Susan suggests, stroking along the row of delicate fabric with an affectionate smile on her face, as if she was introducing us to her beloved children.
“I also added a few casual items,” she adds, her hand resting on silky tops in blue and dusky pink.
“Perfect,” I declare, while Kat musters a polite but strained smile.
“Yes, thanks,” she says, without sounding the least bit sincere.
“Please follow me,” Susan says. “I’ll show you to our dressing rooms.”
Kat throws me a short look, her lips pressed into a thin line and her eyes slightly narrowed. Her redundant defiance amuses me, but it won’t serve her well in the long run. She better shed that stubborn lower class shell and adapt to her new life. I don’t understand why she’s so keen to insist that she doesn’t belong to a world that will now be hers.
And it will be hers forever, I will make sure of that. A girl like Kat doesn’t belong in the gutter, and she certainly does not belong in a kink club to be gawked at. Not if I have a say in it—and I do, now that she’s practically mine.
I plant myself in one of the cushioned chairs and take a sip of the coffee wewereoffered when we got here. Kat declined everything that was offered to her, refusing to even accept a simple glass of water. Yet another habit she will have to get rid of. Declining an offered drink is often perceived as polite and modest by those who don’t know any better, even though it comes across as rather sullen.
My eyes are locked on the archway through which she disappeared with our personal shopper, unable to see what’s going on behind the curtains around the corner. I expected her to come out and present each of the pre-selected outfits to me, but the longer I wait, the more I come to realize that she has no intention of doing so. Maybe I should have told her to, but I didn’t think I’d have to.
After what feels like an eternity, Susan reappears with the garment rack, casting me an apologetic look.
“I’m afraid these won’t do,” she tells me. “I will try to find something that’s more suitable for her taste.”
“Thank you.” I throw her a quick smile, before I get up from my seat and march through the archway into the dressing room area.
There’s only one cabin with the curtains closed, making it easy for me to spot her. I don’t hesitate for a moment, moving in wide and angry steps.
