Page 67 of Silken Chains
Stepping out of the shower and getting back into a bathrobe, steam clouds around me. My hair drips onto the marble floor as two maids walk in and nudge me toward the dressing table. They’d waited just outside the room, exactly as I expected.
The sight of the massive bed catches my eye—it dominates the room; the scent of lavender and sandalwood drifts from the sheets.
Tempting and sinful.
My thoughts turn to Victor yet again, his body pressed against mine as we sink into the softness of the sheets.
Ugh, stop it! Have some self-control, damnit.
I barely have a moment to gawk at the bed when they plant me in front of a mirror. This dressing table’s as over-the-top as everything else here. While the maids fuss over my dripping hair, I hear those telltale heels.
Click, click, click.
Someone’s coming, and they’re not happy.
A woman materializes in the mirror’s reflection, her beauty masking a simmering rage. Her eyes meet mine in the reflection, sharp enough to cut through steel.
“So, you’re the one,” she hisses, her Russian accent dripping with disdain.
I swallow hard, meeting her glare in the mirror. “I guess… I am,” I reply, trying to keep my voice steady.
“You’re nothing like I expected,” she sneers, circling around to face me. “Victor’s never had such… plain taste.”
Ouch.
That hurts more than I’d like to admit. I bet Victor’s usual type is leagues away from a “plain Laura” like me. It hits me then—she’s got a thing for Victor. I’m suddenly the lead in a drama I never auditioned for.
“Well, I’m full of surprises,” I shoot back, but my voice quivers, betraying me.
She rolls her eyes at me.
“Surprises? Doubtful,” she retorts.
Grabbing a comb, she begins to work through my hair with more force than necessary, clearly enjoying each tug a bit too much.
“What’s your name?” I ask, my jaw clenched tight, biting back the pain.
“Irina,” she snaps quietly, her focus more on punishing my scalp than making introductions.
I wince as she yanks through a particularly stubborn knot. “Nice to meet you, Irina.”
Ignoring me, she continues pulling and twisting my hair into a sleek, simple style that somehow manages to look elegant despite the rough handling.
She draws in a short breath. “I don’t know why he chose an American girl,” she mutters under her breath, probably thinking I can’t hear her.
But I do.
“Well, I don’t know why either,” I retort before I can stop myself.
Irina pretends not to hear me, but I catch a slight twitch in her cheek. She abruptly pushes the chair back and hauls out a massive makeup suitcase.
I stare, wide-eyed, at the arsenal of makeup before me. “Holy… Are you painting a mural on my face or something?” I can’t help but quip, eyeing the array of colors and brushes.
Irina mutters something in Russian, a clear note of annoyance in her voice, then exhales loudly, switching back to English with a sharp edge. “Eyes shut,” Irina orders, not amused by my comment.
I comply, feeling the brush strokes sweep over my eyelids.
The makeover continues in tense silence, broken only by the occasional sharp command from Irina.
