A hand? Now that was hilarious. No I did not need a hand, or even two. What I needed was a one-way ticket to a remote desert island and a team of marines, and even that wouldn’t save me now. It was payback time, and I was about to be served up as the main course in a gigantic dish of revenge. I didn’t want to think about it. I couldn’t stop thinking about it. What was he going to do to me? Would I be able to endure this new round of cat and mouse? How was I going to keep it together? I was so close to cracking. When I did, not if, broken glass would have nothing on me. When Mark and Michael finally finished with me, there would be nothing left to put back together.
A series of frantic raps sounded on my door, followed by lots of clucking noises and I banged my head against the wall, praying that I had the strength to get through this.
“I’m fine. Just soaking in the bath. It’s not everyday a girl gets married, you know.” My voice sounded bizarrely cheerful as I reeled off the lie. Perhaps my acting skills were better than I thought.
“Okay sweetie, but don’t take too long in there. You’ve got two hours until the Bentley arrives, and the photographer wants a formal family session in the drawing room prior to that. Are you sure you don’t need my help?” June’s voice had a whiney note to it.
Positive. “I’ll be fine. I promise I’ll be downstairs in half an hour. Just give me a few more minutes.”
She huffed, but I heard her heels receding back into the distance. Thank god. Leaning against the wall, I slowly slid down it until I reached the floor. My heart was beating double time and nausea consumed me. There was no escape from my fate. Caught in the line of fire, all I could do was take a bullet and crawl forward, one day at a time. I would survive this. I was strong, reasonably smart, and very resourceful. This was just another obstacle that needed to be overcome in order to attain my freedom.
My gaze wandered to the La Perla lingerie that hung on a velvet-lined hanger on the front of my armoire. I was about to attire myself in over one thousand pounds of sensual, sheer, cream lace and silk. Beautiful macramé cut outs would reveal more of my body than they would conceal and a large rhodium-plated metal buckle would accentuate my now tiny waist. Hysterical laughter began bubbling from my lips. I guess I had something that I could thank Mark Matthews and my father for. Between them they’d successfully wound my stomach in knots so tight, that I had barely been able to eat since I’d left Albrecht. I now had the figure I’d always dreamed of, whilst stuck in a nightmare that was worse than any hell I could have imagined.
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