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“No, you’re not.” She rolls her eyes.
“I’ll pay him back for them,” I say instead. “And I’m returning the expensive one. The others are affordable.”
She seems to find that hilarious. “I’dloveto see you attempt to hand money to Marius fucking Goltz. Make sure I’m around when you do so I can watch.”
I blow out a breath, frustrated. “There’s nothing between me and him.”
“Never said there was,” she retorts, thoroughly amused.
Right. She invited herself into our imagined wedding party, but she suggested nothing of the sort.
Guessing I’m not likely to win a fact-based argument on the subject, I opt to simply take the box upstairs.
The guest room on the second floor is gorgeous. And no wonder—it was Morgan’s room before she married Camden. I haven’t properly unpacked because of my clothing being compromised; the only things in my closet are the three dresses I bought over the weekend. I picked similar colors so I could wash everything—including underwear—in one load. I’ve made the washing machine work overtime, running it every three days. I meant to shop for more, but it’s never been my favorite activity, and I hated the idea of wasting money on clothes when I technically have some—I just don’t know which ones have a camera hidden somewhere. I read online that such device could be waterproof, so there’s no reason to hope I can drown them or otherwise incapacitate them.
Now I don’t have to worry about it.
I try each dress; because of the comfortable style, and the loose cuts I prefer, they all fit. The biggest question mark was the most expensive one, as it’s a slimmer silhouette, but I don’t plan on keeping it, so that’s not a problem.
Still, I try it on. Just to see.
It’s gorgeous: it makes my boobs look bigger than they are, my waist is emphasized, my butt looks perfect.
I remove the tags of all the clothing except that last dress; I fold it carefully and wrap it in the tissue paper.
Then I add up the exact cost of the rest of the clothing. Four hundred and twelve dollars.
I am giving him back every single penny, no matter what Vi says.
30
MARIUS
Istare at the envelope, then at the woman holding it, intrigued.
Over the last week, we’ve gotten into a routine of sorts, she and I. I pick her up after work if she finishes late. She glares at me and grumbles a reluctant thank you. That’s it, that’s the extent of our interactions. I look at her when I get the chance, but she’s pre-med, I’m pre-law. We rarely are in the same building. Most of her classes are in the Dome, while mine tend to be in Silver Hall.
We barely talk. I don’t know how to communicate with her when I have no clue if I can trust her. And when I try to get more answers, more insight about her, she always shuts me down. It’s exhausting.
“Why, hello, your highness,” I say, grabbing the letter as she puts her seat belt on. “Don’t you look ravishing.”
I mean it, too.
She’s always gorgeous, even in those sacks she loves to wear, but in the flowing red and black floor-length dress, she’s a vision. Red is definitely her color. The fact that I chose the dress for her does strange things to my insides.
I’m eager and curious when I open the mail, only to be hit by both disappointment and confusion when I see it holds a wad of cash.
What the hell?
“I added up the price of all the labels and the sales tax. It should all be there. Except the expensive dress,” she explains in a rush. “I’m not keeping that. You can take it when you drop me off and return it.”
My jaw tics. I toss the envelope on her lap. “You can’t seriously believe I’d take your money.”
The idea’s downright offensive.
“Youcan’t possibly believe I’d let you spend a grand and a half on me!” she counters primly.
I focus on the road, fists clenched over the steering wheel. “Let’s get one thing crystal clear. I’ll spend whatever I want to spend on you.”
