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CLARA
I might as well go out there naked.
This dress—if you can even call it that—is going to fall off me if I sneeze. It’s a slinky gold fabric that ripples with every movement, cut into two panels with one in the front and the other in the back to just barely cover my assets. They’re held together by delicate, thin straps at my shoulders and even more delicate gold chains crisscrossed on either hip.
There’s no way a bra or panties works under this “outfit,” which means I’m going commando.
I’m thanking my lucky stars that breastfeeding Willow didn’t make my boobs sag like I’d feared. I grew a cup size and a half, hooray, but otherwise, they’re staying where they need to.
Not that I want Demyen tolikewhat he sees, or anything…
Anyways.
One small act of mercy he granted me was a choice in shoes. I received two pairs when the guards arrived at the bedroom door: one pair is at least four or five inches tall, poised on lethalstilettos and glistening with gold straps to match the dress. The other pair is identical in design, but only about two inches high.
He remembered my ankle.
My stupid, stupid ankle that no longer hurts, is no longer bruised, and can probably withstand the skyscraper heels.
I bet he’s expecting me to choose the shorter pair. I bet he’s ready to see that I wussed out and went for the safe route in the two-inch heels.
So I slip on the femme fatale heels, do a little practice stroll around the room to check my balance, and smile to myself when I stop in front of the floor-length mirror.
Eat your fucking heart out, Dem.
My hair tumbles in waves over my shoulders, air-dried and au naturale. I hold my head up high as I walk between two guards who are doing their absolute best not to look at me, enjoying the cool desert breeze as it tousles my hair. The moon is a perfect crescent illuminating the grounds. A part of me wants to simply lie by the pool and marvel at the expanse of stars overhead.
But I’m led to another end of the compound—pretty far removed from the main house, actually, or at least from where Willow and I have been staying. The main courtyard is quiet and softly lit by solar lights enough to see one’s way around the pool. Several guards are sitting on deck chairs, casually strolling around, or standing at attention around one particular room that must be a VIP guest situation.
We walk past all that and down through a series of open archways toward the faint sound of laughter and music. As we get closer to the sounds, I’m able to see that it’s a secondarycourtyard of sorts, with another pool and a larger area set up for formal dining. Strings of lights drape across the courtyard, casting a warm golden glow over Demyen’s guests.
And there are so. Many. Guests.
I don’t know what I expected. Ten? Maybe twenty? But no, there’s gotta be at least fifty or more people here, eating, drinking, and schmoozing with each other over fancy little cocktail platters and what must be an endless round of expensive champagne.
And of course, the actual serving staff is all appropriately dressed for such an event.
I’mthe only one who looks like a prostitute.
The guards stop at the main archway that opens into the courtyard. They must be expecting me to just sashay my almost-naked ass in there as if I know what I’m doing.
Riiight. Joke’s on them.
I haven’t known what I’m doing since the day I was born.
But then I see him, several tables away and laughing at something the man next to him muttered in his ear. The whole table is full of men, young and old, all obviously wealthy and important enough to sit with the host.
There are women here, too, but most of them are draped on the arms of men that Demyen is either trying to impress or intimidate with this display of casual extravagance. Like me, they’re here for show. Living ornaments meant to make the night pretty.
Unlike me, they don’t have to deal with the asshole in the tailored linen suit.
He hasn’t called me over, but I don’t fucking care. I know what he wants—to humiliate me in front of everyone, dressed like this and serving him—and while I’ll be at his beck and call, I won’t be groveling for his attention.
So I put my cocktail serving skills to good use and weave my way through the tables. No pause, no hesitation, just inner determination to prove a point and the familiar mask of happy servitude on my face.
When Demyen looks up and sees me, the champagne flute he was about to toss back pauses at his lips.
He’s frozen.
