Itsumi smiles at me, but it’s a sharp smile, one that terrifies me a little.
“Do you think maybe you and I could have a talk sometime next weekend? After your finals are over, of course,” she says, and my blood goes cold. But what can I say but sure thing? “Just to go over that night one more time.”
My cheeks heat, and I get the strangest feeling that she knows. Not about Justin obviously, but like … the sex between me and Parrish.
“Okay,” I say, and she nods, her gaze slipping past me to Maxx. She offers him another smile but very quickly returns her attention to me.
“Great. I’ll be around. You’re welcome to just grab me whenever you have a moment.”
“I can do that,” I agree, making sure that the heart pin is facing directly toward her. I want Justin to know that the FBI wants to talk to me. See what he has to say about that. “I’m gonna go get ready now. We only have a few hours, so …”
I trail off and slip past her, Maxx following along behind me.
“What the fuck was that about?” he wonders as I open my bedroom door and pause at the sight of box mountain on my bed. I mean, there’s a lot of shit there. All of it looks fancy, too. If the boxes look like they cost a lot, what could be inside of them?
“No clue. But I don’t like it.” I drop my bag to the floor and step forward, lifting the lid on one of the boxes. A pair of Louboutin pumps in a bubblegum pink. I lift one up, turning it over to look at the signature red bottom sole.
On another day, in another place, with another admirer, I might actually enjoy coming home to find my bed piled with designer clothing. In this case, it just come across as creepy.
“They’ll look nice on you,” X offers, but I can tell that he, too, is disturbed.
Like, cool, you got me some red-bottoms. Could you also release my boyfriend from captivity and stop slicing up his pretty chest like a holiday roast? And if you’d stop threatening to kill him if I don’t sleep with other guys, that’d be appreciated, too.
I set the shoes aside, opening another box to find a white faux fur wrap with a diamond clasp—a real diamond clasp. I brush my fingers over it, frowning hard. I’m being dressed up like a doll.
Or a princess.
His payback princess.
I shudder all over.
The first week, he had me do petty things. The next week was all about destroying me emotionally. Next … I can barely allow myself to think about that.
Since I know Justin’s listening in on me and Maxx, I’m very careful about what I say and do. If I ditch the tech or the heart pin right now, he’ll be suspicious as fuck.
The next box is much smaller, and very, very pink. When I crack it open, I find a pink diamond tiara resting inside and frown heavily.
Oh.
Lovely.
I glance back at Maxx, and he returns my stare with a raised brow.
A tiara. I’m wearing a tiara to a corporate launch party. Fuck my life.
There are matching earrings in another box and elbow-length, pale pink gloves in the last.
I turn my head toward the closet. Justin said he was sending a dress, so … I move over to the closet and open the door. I’m assuming Delphine put all of these things in here, but I’m not sure. Anyway, whoever did stripped off the garment bag and folded it neatly on the pedestal in the center of the closet, the one that’s piled with my cheap costume jewelry from back home.
The dress itself is hanging up and, well, it’s gorgeous; I won’t lie about that.
My heart stutters a little when I see it, but it’s hard to get excited about something that I have no choice in wearing. I move toward it with Maxx trailing just behind me and reach out to touch the fine pale pink tulle of the skirt.
A strapless corset bodice with prominent boning and gauzy panels that match my skin tone rounds out the top, waterfalling into a cascade of asymmetrical tulle that froths like rapids in a churning stream as the skirt falls to about mid-calf.
There’s a note pinned to the skirt that I unhook and unfold as Maxx reads over my shoulder with me.
Do you love it? A custom-made Alexander McQueen gown, just for you. I can already imagine how beautiful you’ll look tonight, princess.
Cold sweats break out across my skin as I hand the note back to Maxx so he can reread it a few times. If there are any clues in that, I’m missing them.
“Jesus Christ,” he murmurs as he looks back up at the gown. “This is at least a fifteen-thousand-dollar dress. Maybe more.” I glance back at him in surprise, and he grins. “My sister might race dirt bikes professionally, but she gets dolled all the way up for events. She calls herself a Track Princess.” He crumples the note in his hand and slips it into his pocket. “I know more than I ever wanted to about designer dresses.”
