by SE Reign
I’m not a doll, but Elijah’s people dress me like one, which is why I like Laura despite her frozen smile. She asks me what I want to wear then tries to get it approved by the man running my life.
“You’ll need to be comfortable today,” she says. “Are you going to let Mario and Shelly do your makeup and hair or will you insist on doing your own again?”
“It’s done, as far as I’m concerned.”
She smiles. I have a feeling I’m the only one happy with my wild curls and the understated makeup I prefer. Elijah’s never said otherwise.
“Alrighty. Car leaves in twenty minutes. I’ll be downstairs.” She drapes the clothes across my bed, aware I have no intention of letting her help me get dressed, and then leaves.
It takes me sixty seconds to throw on clothes when I’m allowed to do it on my own, so I return to the research.
Seven deaths, including Elijah’s older brother and sister, who was nine-years-old.
I can’t fathom someone so young dying. The way the texts read, the deaths aren’t accidental. My best friend Alisha is all about conspiracies. I don’t buy into them normally, but I’m starting to think there’s something terrible going on behind the scenes in Nijala and wish she was talking to me, so I could hear her opinion.
I stare at the picture of Princes Layla on the official website of the Nijalan royalty. She looks a lot like Elijah and has pigtails and a smile.
If the car accidents are purposeful, what kind of monster would kill an innocent little girl?
Poor Elijah. I wonder if this is why he refuses to let anyone in. Every one of his closest family members, with the exception of his father and aunt Malika, is dead.
There’s a lot of speculation and tons of rumors online about the shrouded world of the reclusive King of Nijala and his surviving family members. Lots of uproar over them being one of the few remaining absolute monarchies in the world and the fact that the divide between the wealthy and impoverished is one of the severest in the Middle East.
A trillion dollar empire, and one of the highest poverty rates in the world. It’s another concept I just can’t understand that makes me want to step away from Elijah. He’s obsessed with the throne. Does he have the capacity to understand how wrong it is to let his own people suffer?
I shake my head, frustrated. The texters love to tease me but won’t just tell me what I need to know. Why not just say – get away from Elijah – instead of tasking me to look up car accidents?
What puzzles me the most: at no point do they claim he’s responsible for the deaths, which would be an insanely effective way to make me run away fast. Screwing around? Yes – they’re blunt about that, which makes me think they know he’s not involved in the car accidents. Some of these messages come across more like …
Veiled threats.
“Oh, shit.” I hadn’t really thought of them that way before.
“Ms. Hanover.” Maya’s tap at the door snaps me out of a train of thought that would make Alisha shriek with joy that I’d crossed to the dark side with her.
“Yes?” I face the door. Maya is primly dressed in a dress suit, wearing her normal dour expression. She’s Elijah’s distant cousin and seems too young to be so serious. Assigned to become my personal assistant last week, she hasn’t seemed at all pleased at working with me.
“Your prescription was misplaced again.”
“Seriously? This is the third time in like a week!”
“My apologies. I’ll ensure they understand this isn’t acceptable.”
“I can just go down there. I’m sure it’ll be easier.”
“No,” she says quickly. “I’ll take care of it.” She bows her head and leaves.
Weird. I’ve never heard of any pharmacy that couldn’t produce a few packs of birth control pills on the spot. The maid somehow managed to throw mine out one day while cleaning last week. I’m on the last active day of my first pack that I started after my first week with Elijah. My period will start tomorrow, so I guess I’ve got a week for the pharmacy to get it right.
Or maybe Maya really doesn’t like being my assistant? She’s the only one in the household who hasn’t warmed to me.
Elijah is building me a team, of which Maya is a part of. Today, he’s planning on adding two more members. I’ve been with him a month and have two months left. All I can think about is that some of the things he’s doing are not the actions of someone looking at a short-term, three month deal. It’s kind of scaring me.
I adore Laura, Mario and Shelly. But I don’t think Maya likes me. She’s never really around when I need something and her response to anything I do request is far slower than how I’ve seen her react to Elijah. Anymore, I usually ask Jamil, who has given up on telling me he manages the household, not my personal affairs.
My phone vibrates, and I glance down. It’s a text from Jamil.
Success.
I can’t help but laugh. It’s taken me a week to teach him to message us on his new phone without sending a bunch of blank text bubbles. He’s nowhere near as comfortable with technology as the other members of Elijah’s staff. I type him a quick note of encouragement, close my laptop and change.
When I’m ready, I check my phone and see a new text from the mystery people. Every time the unknown phone number pops up, unease trickles through me, and I consider not reading them. It’s like watching a train wreck on television, though. I keep reading, even if I know I shouldn’t be interested in what they have to say.
We need to meet. I’ll be at your location today. There’s a picture attached to the text of a man with Elijah’s dark honey skin tone that I assume is the texter.
His eyes are cold. Immediately, I don’t like him.
I look around, a chill running through me. What the hell does that mean? He’s following me?
“Ms. Hanover!” Laura calls.
“Coming!” I snatch my purse and shove the phone into it. While curious what these people want and who they are, no part of me wants to meet with them.
Moments like these, I start to consider telling Elijah about the weird texts.
***
A few hours later, I’m standing at what I’m calling a private fashion show. Elijah is behind me, his solid warmth and intoxicating scent tugging at my ability to focus. He’s gathered some of the most exclusive designers in the world to help create a uniform look and unique fashion designs for my public persona. Models are walking a short runway in couture clothing with electronica music pumping quietly into the room, while we stand with glasses of wine at a massive, square table littered with photographs and drawings of women’s clothing.
“Each designer has a one-page summary featuring an executive overview, sample of their designs, and other points of interest,” Elijah explains for the third time in his low, husky voice, drawing me from my thoughts.
He’s pulled up a file of one-page overviews of each of the companies that he had Maya prepare for me. Representatives from designers or the designers themselves stand quietly a few feet away, waiting for their turn to present and answer any questions. I can’t believe the names I’m seeing across the summaries. Some of these companies are worth hundreds of millions of dollars, while others are tiny boutique designers chosen because something about them made Elijah think they should be here. He’s too much of a control freak to accept volunteers and too rich to need them.
If this man is half this organized and thorough in his business deals as he is picking out clothes, there’s no mystery as to why he’s so incredibly successful.
I lean against the table, struggling to take in everything in front of me, knowing how important this decision is. The designer who made the dress I wore to the gala at the museum sold out of everything on her website and store within a minute after the pictures of me in her dress hit the newsstands. Just like the chic outfits I wear on my Starbucks visits.
Sixty seconds. According to the trash TV that Elijah hates – but which I find provides a fascinating perspective of me an
d my new world – the designers I’ve worn are booked up for the next year with requests for clothing by everyone from A-list celebrities to royalty worldwide.
This is the power Elijah talked about – something I never dreamed possible. He sees the ability to influence others for his purposes, and I see the gift to help those who deserve it.
Which means, whoever I choose today will follow my route to insta-stardom. I can’t help thinking I’d rather make an overnight success of a sole proprietor working out of her garage than a massive corporation. But god help me – this is just overwhelming. I know nothing about haute couture and even less about what a queen-in-training should wear. I’m afraid of making the wrong choice, knowing the world is watching.
With a deep breath, I let my eyes roam over the prospective designers. I don’t know how Elijah can be so calm when so many hopes are riding on him. One of them catches my eye, and I blink.
For a moment, I thought I saw the man from the texts.
Stop it, Natty. Alisha would laugh at you being so paranoid in a place like this. There’s no way for anyone to get past George, Elijah’s muscular head of security who has no sense of humor and looks big enough to break someone in half if he wanted to.
“You need one American designer and one Nijalan,” Elijah adds. He’s leaning against me, one hand on the table in front of us while the other rests on my hip possessively.
I return my gaze to the iPad. As distant as our relationship has gotten, having him here helps me. He’s accustomed to managing the expectations of everyone in the room and being the center of attention. He doesn’t let his emotions get in the way. I want to help someone who deserves it become an overnight sensation, even if they dress me in the ugliest clothes on the planet.
He wants to ensure we get the fashion needed to define my new image as an American princess and play the politics of my position right.
“Love the leggings, by the way,” he adds. His hand shifts from my hip to my ass, and he squeezes.
It only confuses me more. He hasn’t spoken to me gently in a week and yet, his first instinct appears to be to touch me, wherever I am. I can’t help my body’s reaction. It’s nearly impossible to focus on anything but him when he’s so close that I can breathe in the scent that just leaves me addled.
“You’re distracting me,” I murmur.
“Now you know how I feel every time we’re together,” he says with some dissatisfaction.
I glance up at him, uncertain if he’s messing with me or being honest. He holds my gaze with his dark depths, the intensity of his look making me fevered. He squeezes my ass again then slides a finger down the crease between the cheeks. My lower body warms with desire and anticipation.
My face grows hot, as much from knowing we’re the center of everyone’s attention as because I know what he’s thinking.
He hasn’t looked at me like this for almost two weeks. My heart flips over in my chest. What is with this man?
“Love that reaction,” he says, amused. “Focus, farasha. What’re you thinking?”
That I want you to fuck me. But I know that’s not what he’s asking this time.
I force my attention to the table and iPad.
“EJ, I don’t know where to start,” I admit softly. “These designs are all so beautiful.”
“This one has you written all over it.” He reaches around me, the pressure of his body against mine rendering me temporarily unable to see straight let alone think about fashion. His dick is hard against my backside, a sign he’s as turned on as I am being this close to one another.
He scrolls through a few pages until he finds the one he’s looking for. The hand on my ass shifts around my hip to my lower belly, and he presses me to him subtly. He rests his chin on my head.
He’s paused at a tiny, US-based boutique designer out of Nebraska. I study the bulleted highlights at the bottom.
“Wow. They donate fifteen percent of sales to cancer research,” I murmur, surprised and pleased by this tidbit. The rest doesn’t mean much to me. I’m not one for high fashion. I think it looks kind of silly, like a Halloween contest for sophisticated adults.
“Winger Fashion,” Elijah calls, glancing at his assistant.
She motions to Laura, who accompanies the designer racing back stage to put her best model and design forward.
“The goal here is to find someone who you feel comfortable with their style. We’re working on transforming you,” he reminds me.
“This is amazing,” I answer.
“Whatever you see here is meant as an example. If you want them to make you jeans and high end t-shirts, they’ll do it. These companies will do anything for a royal warrant.”
I nod. It’s hard to imagine myself wearing any of the concepts I see, because they’re just so foreign to me. But I understand what he means. The team he’s building me is supposed to help craft my public image. I won’t be wearing these conceptual designs.
“Do you have designers?” I ask curiously.
“Three. One American, one British and one Nijalan,” he answers. “But no one gives a shit what I wear.”
I laugh. His humor always catches me off-guard, I think because he seems too intense sometimes to have a sense of humor at all.
“Focus on the material. Or the cut or whatever you see that makes you connect to the design,” he continues. “Nijalan designers love jewel-tones.” He points to a gaggle of designs he’s separated from the US-based ones. “With them, I’d look for a style or details you like. Some are more traditional, some super modern, some just … I really don’t know what that one is.” He’s tapping one paper.
I laugh again, because I was thinking the exact same thing. Who puts feathers on a velvet ball gown?
He smiles at me.
It’s a real smile, and it makes my heart race and a sense of giddiness float through me.
Caramel-EJ is making an appearance. And here I thought I’d lost him.
“Mr. Micah,” Laura calls from the runway.
The designer is beside her, the model a few feet in front in a long, royal blue sheathe dress with a ribbed bodice and faux fur lining the seams. It’s pretty and trendy, though I just can’t see myself in something like that. I’d be too worried about spilling something on it or tripping or otherwise destroying the hard work the nervous designer put into creating it.
“Go.” He swats my ass. “Never hesitate to ask questions. These people are here to give you what you want, and anyone you choose will be thoroughly vetted.”
My good humor falls flat. Vetted like my family and friends, who have all but disappeared? My mother and Alisha haven’t spoken to me much at all in about two weeks. I don’t dare say anything out loud, knowing he’s unaware of what I know about his dealing with my mother and what I suspect about him influencing Alisha.
It’s reminders like these that make me feel like a fool for wanting Caramel-Elijah back. He’s the same man, just different facets to a complicated personality he has no intention of letting me see.
And then I think about what his scary aunt Malika told me and try to look at the big picture. Today, I can make someone a superstar, while I’m also saving the homes of my family and friends by simply bearing through this dysfunctional relationship. This is what matters, not acting out at Elijah for being the man everyone says he is.
On days like this, when we’re spending large amounts of time together, I find it hard not to give him a piece of my mind. With him at work all the time, it’s easy to channel my anger elsewhere. Not so much with his arms around me. What’s worse: I’m PMSing and moody as hell, so I’m having a harder time than usual keeping my mouth quiet.
I move away from Elijah and ascend the stairs to the runway to join the designer and Laura.
“Ms. Hanover, this is Elena Winger,” the impeccably dressed Laura says.
“Call me Natalie,” I say with a smile. I shake Elena’s hand and am surprised to feel hers trembling. She seemed a bit nervous from afar. Up close, sh
e looks like she’s just met an alien from another planet.
She opens her mouth to speak, and nothing comes out. Laura appears a little surprised then disapproving.
I pity Elena Winger. I want to hug her. I understand what she’s feeling. If I says yes, the world will know her name forever. Like mine.
“Do you want to show me the, um, design features?” I ask with a look at Laura. “If I said it right?”
“Close enough.” Laura smiles back. “Elena was telling me backstage that the dress is made of superfine cotton, of all things. Is that right?”
Her question helps the designer.
“Yes,” Elena says in a hushed voice. “We hand spin our cotton, wool and other materials. It’s organically grown and locally sourced from locations around the US that are certified to have a low or no impact on the environment. Everything down to our dye is renewable and chemical free.”
“This is cotton?” I ask in amazement. “It looks like silk.”
The tall, slender model is perfectly still, almost like a mannequin. I want to touch the dress but don’t want to be too forward.
“Go ahead,” Laura says, reading my expression. She stretches out to pull the material away from the model’s body and nods her head towards it. “One hundred percent eco-friendly.”
I feel it. The soft material is light with a dulled sheen that makes it look like it’s glowing. “My god, it is like silk. Almost as good as wearing t-shirts everywhere.” I look at the dress anew. It’d be insanely comfortable and look glamorous. I can totally wear something like that.
Laura chuckles, and Elena offers a tentative smile.
“Winger has a lot to offer – unique designs that are modern, trendy and comfortable,” Laura says, eyes on the information sheet in her iPad. “I recommended Elena because of the comfort factor, which will be critical for the amount of time you’ll be spending in the public eye after the wedding.”
Wedding. Ugh. I force my smile to stay in place.