~Ella~
My reflection stares back at me in the mirror as I fasten the last earring. Vincent has been waiting for me, and I know he's impatient—he always is—but I don't care. He wanted me ready half an hour ago. Instead, I've taken my time, every brush stroke and curl placement deliberate. I am doing this to spite him.
An hour earlier, I'd stepped out of the bathroom to find him in my bedroom, as though he owned the air I breathed. He used that sharp tongue of his, circling me with words, leaning too close, trying to break me down with his heat. And for a moment, I'd felt my emotions falter, caught in the trap he weaves so easily. But then he had reminded me—like he always does—what we are, what we aren't. That we're a show, a façade. And with that, my resolve snapped back into place.
I admire myself for what feels like the hundredth time. The dark blue satin dress I chose clings to my figure, its fabric shimmering when I move. The neckline dips in a tasteful but undeniably daring plunge, balanced by a slit that slices high up my thigh—elegant enough for a family dinner, seductive enough to provoke him. It's not the dress he sent, the one waiting in its unopened box on the bed. This one is mine.
I finally grab my purse and descend the stairs, the sharp click of my heels echoing through the house like a countdown. And just as I expected, he's there—waiting.
Vincent sits in the living room, phone pressed to his ear, but the moment my presence registers, his conversation falters. He disconnects the call without a word, his dark eyes narrowing into a storm.
His gaze drags over me, slow and deliberate, from hem to neckline, and by the time it returns to my face, it's blistering.
"That is not the dress I asked you to wear."
His voice is cool, almost conversational, but I can feel the weight of his disapproval pressing against me.
I pull my brown hair behind my shoulders, forcing myself to smile as though his gaze isn't burning holes straight through me.
"Yes," I reply evenly. "I didn't like it. This one is much better."
He rises with deliberate patience, slipping his phone into the pocket of his coat without once breaking eye contact. When he steps closer, his height towers over me, and the familiar scent of his cologne lingers between us—rich, expensive, maddeningly intoxicating.
His fingers brush my hair, tucking a loose strand behind my ear. The gesture is gentle, almost intimate, but I flinch away and take a step back. I won't give him that power. Yet before I can create any real distance, his hand shoots to my waist, pulling me flush against him until my palms are trapped between our bodies. My heart spikes painfully in my chest, unprepared for the sudden closeness.
His nose grazes along my cheek, his breath hot against my ear as he whispers,
"This dress speaks of a woman who's meant to be taken to bed after dinner. And that's not what I intend to do tonight."
He leans back, dark eyes narrowing as his voice hardens.
"Go upstairs and put on something decent. You've already wasted too much of my time. Don't waste more."
He lets me go. I stumble a step back, my body burning from the unexpected contact, my pulse still unsteady. I have never been this close to a man—except my father, and that relationship was anything but tender.
I straighten, fixing him with a steady look.
"No," I say firmly, my voice like steel beneath the calm. "You don't get to decide what I wear. You may control every other thing, but this one.._"I shake my head in disapproval. "No."
This man is always used to things going his way. And when it comes to me, he's no different—always cornering me, leaving me with no real choice but to bend, to follow. And up until now, I've gone along with it.
But the little things—what I wear, who I speak to, even what I eat—at the very least, those should belong to me. If he won't give me that freedom, then I'll make sure to drag my feet, to make things harder for him in ways he doesn't expect.
I lift my chin and give him a polite smile that I know will irritate him more than open defiance.
"We should get going," I say lightly, "otherwise more of your precious time will be wasted."
The muscle in his jaw tightens, his displeasure written on his face. But I don't wait for him to answer. I step past him confidently, leaving the heat of his gaze at my back, and walk outside where the car is already waiting for us.
The night air feels cooler, freer—though the sense of freedom lasts only a heartbeat. Not long after, the door opens and he slips in beside me. The silence between us is thick as the driver pulls away, the car gliding smoothly into the city lights.
His presence fills the space, sharp and suffocating, but I keep my eyes fixed ahead, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing my nerves.