Page 34 of A House of Gold
I look at it. It’s identical to every other door in this hallway. “How?”
“Because I’m telling you it is.” He’s clearly done with this conversation. “You’ll figure it out. Or you won’t.” He starts to walk away, then pauses. “Oh, and Raven? Lord Croesus will summon you when he’s ready to give you your first assignment. Could be tomorrow. Could be next week. Time moves differently here, remember?” He smirks. “Don’t get too comfortable.”
And then I’m alone in the hallway, staring at a door I’m supposed to believe is mine.
I reach for the handle.
The door opens easily, and beyond it is the room I woke in. My bag is on the floor. My life completely reduced to a few belongings. I step inside and close the door behind me.
I’m free to move, Croesus said. Free to explore. Free to do whatever I want within the boundaries he’s set. But freedom with boundaries isn’t freedom at all.
It’s just a roomier cage.
9
All I can do in this place is wait. Walk. Wander. And wait. Luckily, I’m in my room when the note arrives.
It’s written in elegant script on thick parchment: First assignment tonight. Dress appropriately for a debrief in my office now. Don’t keep me waiting. - C
Short. Direct. Well, if this is how it’s going to be, I don’t mind. As little interaction between us as necessary is best.
I look down at my jeans and t-shirt. Probably not what he meant by appropriate.
I cross to the wardrobe, the one I ignored yesterday because I was too exhausted to care. Pull open the doors and blink
The wardrobe is full of clothes. Not my clothes. New clothes. Expensive clothes. Organized by type and color like a boutique display.
Pants. Shirts. Dresses. Jackets.
Quickly, I snatch a few items and check the tags. '12.’ All in my size. What the hell?
I pull out a pair of black pants, tailored, well-made, the kind of thing I’d see in a store window and never buy because who spends two hundred dollars on pants? And hold them up againstmy waist. They look like they’d fit, but sometimes my too round hips and ass make clothes impossible.
I check the tags on a few other items. No brands I recognize. But how did he know?
The creep factor of this makes my skin crawl.
I grab the black pants out of spite. If he’s going to stock my wardrobe without input, I’m at least going to wear the most practical, least decorative option. Pair them with a simple black shirt, also perfectly fitted, also annoyingly comfortable.
There are shoes lined up at the bottom of the wardrobe. Boots, heels, flats. I grab the black leather boots with a low heel, which are actually practical, and pull them on.
Perfect fit.
I look at myself in the vanity mirror. The clothes are nice.Reallynice. Better than anything I own. The pants fit as if they had been tailored for my body. The shirt is a soft, expensive fabric which drapes just right. The boots are out of a wet dream. I could never afford boots like this.
I look put-together. Professional. But there’s no way clothes are going to make me look like I belong in a place like this.
I hate that he’s lined up these clothes like I’m a doll and that he knew my size, my measurements, and probably my preferences too. Hate that I look good in these clothes, that they make me feel, just slightly, less out of place in this golden prison. What did I expect? I’d wear the same jeans I arrived in for a year straight? No, I’d even been a little defiant, thinking they’d have to provide if they wanted something else from me clothes wise. I hate that I walked into this knowing something like this would happen. But this feels different than I expected.
It’s a subtle form of control, making me comfortable, ,making me look the part, easing me into this role he’s crafted for me.
I grab my actual worn leather jacket from the chair, and pull it on over the fancy shirt. A small rebellion. A needed reminder that I’m still me under all this expensive costuming.
The journal is still in the inner pocket. I press my hand against it like I can sink it into my own heart.
Still haven’t read more than those first few pages. Still can’t bring myself to.
Later.I’ll read it later.
