by M James
“You understand the importance of this?”
There’s a pause, and I can almost hear Zach trying to figure out a diplomatic answer. “I understand that you’re just looking out for her.”
“Good.” Vincent pauses. “Where is she, anyway?”
“The three of them were upstairs getting ready.”
I give myself a moment to breathe, to make sure my face doesn’t give away any of my feelings about what I’ve just heard, and so that they don’t think I’ve been lingering outside the door. But I don’t want Dena or Erin to catch me here either, so after a few seconds pass, I straighten, walking into the room with a smile plastered onto my face.
I glide straight towards Vincent, and his eyes sweep over me appraisingly, an approving smile on his face. That expression doesn’t make me feel good so much as relieved because it means he likes the cobalt blue dress I’ve picked out for tonight, one with spaghetti straps and a lacy bodice and fluttery skirt along with my rose gold jewelry and nude heels, because it means he approves of my hair down and straightened and smooth, my light makeup, everything that I’ve done in hopes that it suits his mood for tonight when I had no idea what it would actually be.
I don’t look at Zach, even though I want to. I want to know what he thinks of how I look tonight, if he thinks I’m too skinny or if he just notices the cleavage I have left in the sweetheart neckline of the dress, the way the skirt flows over my hips, the softness of my hair and the way the high heels make my legs look. He never once saw me in heels when we knew each other before. I didn’t even own a pair—he never saw me dressed up like this, either. I wore thrift store jeans and graphic tees and sneakers back then, and he loved me just the same. I wonder if he loves me like this too, or if he’d rather see me the way I was before, the old Rain, the one that belonged to him and no one else.
I know if I look at him, his face will be carefully blank. I couldn’t expect anything else—that’s his armor, protecting him from Vincent and everything that Vincent would do if he knew what Zach and I once had. I’m almost glad that I can’t look at him because it would hurt more to see that, I think, than anything else. To be reminded of how well Zach can control himself around me, when all I want is for him to go crazy with desire, to knock Vincent out, to sweep me away from here because he can’t stand to see me in another man’s arms any longer.
But that’s never been Zach. He’s always been careful and sensible, mindful of the best way to protect me, with a tight grip on his emotions. He wouldn’t put me in danger no matter what he felt.
His entire life, he’s always protected me, and right now, he’s still doing it by hiding what he feels.
Unless he just doesn’t feel anything for me anymore.
“There you are!” Dena crows, sweeping into the room with Erin behind her and distracting me from my thoughts. Dena is wearing the dress she’d bought for the club afterparty and never gotten to wear, her hair loose and tumbling in thick black curls around her shoulders, her usual slash of red lipstick bold and bright on her full lips. Her eyes lock onto Zach immediately, a hungry look in them, and I feel that now-familiar flare of jealousy mixed with dry amusement when I remember that he didn’t even know her name.
It’s Erin that makes me feel even worse, though. She’s wearing a very short, nude-colored bandage dress that fits her so tightly that it leaves nothing to the imagination, with straps so thin that it’s clear she can’t possibly be wearing a bra under it. It’s not really low-cut at least, the neckline cuts straight across her petite chest, but the skintight fit of the dress combined with the color and everything else she’s wearing with it—six-inch nude Louboutins, diamond chandelier earrings, and a full face of makeup complete with faux eyelashes—makes it way too sexy for her. She doesn’t look seventeen. She looks nineteen or twenty and absolutely drop-dead gorgeous. But that’s not the point. She’s too young to look like that.
I open my mouth to say something—I can’t stop it; I’m so tired of everyone around me acting as if Erin morphing into a completely different person in a matter of weeks is okay—when Dena speaks first, interrupting me.
“I helped Erin get ready. Doesn’t she look beautiful?” She’s speaking to Vincent, not to me, which makes me feel even worse—as if I’m invisible. As if no one even cares that I’m in the room.
Until I glance over at Zach and see him looking at Erin, his mouth pressed together in a thin line as if he’s holding back what he wants to say as well, his eyes still carefully blank, but his jaw tense. And then he looks over at me, and our eyes meet.
Just that, just seeing his blue gaze locked with mine, is enough to send a shiver down my spine, my entire body yearning towards his. It’s all I can do to stay in place, not to go to him, to remember that there are other people in the room, the precariousness of my situation.
I love you, I want to scream, I want to grab him and shake him and ask him how the past years got away from us, how we could ever have thought we could stay apart, how the hell he can stand there and know that I’m going to marry someone else and not fucking do something about it?
“She looks gorgeous,” Vincent says with a smile, and my attention snaps back to the conversation. “I think Manhattan has been good for you, Erin. You’ve really blossomed since you left Indiana.”
Erin blushes, and I wrestle with my expression, trying not to frown, not to look upset. I feel the exact opposite. Of course, I don’t want Erin to “blossom” in the way she has. I want her to stay my little sister, sweet and innocent and hopeful.
I don’t want her to become hard and conniving and greedy, like so many of the other women I’ve met since I’ve been with Vincent, the wives and mistresses of the men he works with.
“Let’s go, ladies,” Vincent says with a charming smile, as if it’s making his whole night that he’s going out to dinner with three beautiful women. To be honest, it probably is, and at one time I would have been hurt by the fact that I’m not enough for him, but now it just makes me sick. He’s entitled and arrogant and believes he’s owed everything. That’s why I could never be enough. There was never a chance of that.
I just wish I’d seen it sooner.
We end up at Vincent’s favorite Italian restaurant—unsurprisingly, he chose where we would go without asking anyone else’s opinion, least of all mine—but both Dena and Erin are thrilled. Dena is better at looking as if she’s used to being taken around to five-star restaurants regularly, but even her eyes widen as we walk in. Erin looks around wide-eyed at the décor, which is admittedly beautiful. It’s all done in elegant mahogany and black wrought iron, everything gleaming, the chairs and booths upholstered in velvet.
The hostess leads us to our table, and Vincent orders a bottle of wine. “What would you like, Erin?” he asks, smiling indulgently at her.
“A peach bellini,” Erin says, and the waitress nods, not bothering to ask for Erin’s ID. Once again, I want to protest, but all I can think about is how many times I drank while out with Vincent before I’d turned twenty-one. I’d loved it, just like Erin does, feeling important and special that the man I was with could ensure I could do anything I wanted—but at least I hadn’t been a minor! I’d been nineteen when we started dating, too young to be drinking and doing all of the things we had, but not a high-schooler still.
We all open our menus; I look nervously down at mine. Even though I don’t think Vincent would go as far as to tell me what to eat out in public—he doesn’t like to appear controlling to others—I know I’ll hear about it when we got home. As the waitress comes back with our drinks, Vincent orders a charcuterie board, mussels in red sauce, and calamari as appetizers, and my stomach rumbles, because all of that sounds fucking delicious. It makes me want to cry that I know I can only pick at it. It’s even worse once it arrives because I carefully take only a tiny bit of each. However, the prosciutto is the best I’ve ever had, paired with a tangy cheese, and the calamari is crisp and perfect. I want to devour it—I’m starving after my
workout this morning and the “meal” of salad and thinly sliced chicken with almonds that came after it—but I restrain myself.
On the other hand, Erin takes only a small slice of cheese as well and a sliver of salami. “Don’t you want to try the calamari?” Vincent asks, nudging the plate towards her. “They have the best here, very tender.”
I seethe at that, at him encouraging Erin to eat when I’m starving, but it’s even worse when Erin just shakes her head.
“No, I’m trying to be more conscious about what I’m eating,” she says primly, taking a small nibble of the cheese, like a fucking mouse. “I see how hard it’s been for Rain, with her diet and exercise, and I don’t want to have to worry about slimming down. I’d rather just get on top of it now, you know?”
She looks at me as she says that last, smiling sweetly, and it’s all I can do not to visibly recoil. The hurt pierces my chest, flowing through me like a shock, and I bite my lower lip hard to keep the tears from welling up. It’s not the most hurtful thing she’s said to me, that was back in Italy, but it still feels like a slap in the face. I want my sister back, and I don’t know what happened to her, where she’s gone, why Erin has changed so much so quickly. Can it really just be that she resents me for leaving, for having all of this?
“That’s smart,” Vincent says with a proud smile. “Good for you.”
Dena is picking at her food too, the majority of it either still on the plates simmering in the middle of the table or on Vincent’s, and I want to scream, to shove it all off of the table onto the floor, to yell that this is ridiculous, the three of us sitting here daintily nibbling on cheeses as if we’re not hungry while Vincent presides over all of it like a king with his obedient harem.
My eyes well up with tears, and I look away quickly, taking another sip of my wine to try to hide it.
“You know, I have some contacts at Columbia,” Vincent is saying to Erin. “I know you’re supposed to start college soon, I could see about bypassing the admissions process for you. That, or NYU, if you’re interested. Have you thought about what you want to study?”
“I really love photography,” Erin says, all of her attention on him. I hold my breath, waiting for Vincent to turn it around, to tell her how college isn’t important, how she should focus on finding a good husband and being a good wife, all of the things he’s spouted to me to kill my dream of going into a writing program and becoming an author, of having my own career.
“I take photos pretty much everywhere I go—ordinary things, unusual things—anything that I think would make a good picture, really,” Erin continues. “And I’m really interested in how design in social media advertising affects sales and products…”
Vincent looks at her for a moment. “Well, I think that’s fantastic,” he says finally. “College is important, especially for a smart young woman like yourself. You should follow your dreams and do what you love—there’s nothing more fulfilling in life, really. You can accomplish whatever you want.”
And just like that, my appetite is completely gone. I press my lips together, trying to fix my expression before Vincent can see. But he isn’t paying attention to me. I was worried that he might influence Erin away from school, tell her that finding wealth and security was more important. But instead, he’s saying the exact opposite of what he said to me, that I didn’t need it, that he’d provide everything for me, that I should be practical and accept that the likelihood of my succeeding was slim. And yet, here he is, telling Erin that she can succeed at whatever she sets her mind to.
It’s not fair, I want to scream. A few months ago, I might have thought that his views had changed, that he was telling the truth when he said he just wanted me to take one thing at a time, to wait until my father was better and my life was more settled, but I don’t believe any of that now. He’s trapped me, and now he’s turned his attentions to Erin, lavishing her with attention—why? As a way to punish me, by giving her what he’s withholding from me?
No. It’s not that at all. He’s doing it out of some sick, twisted idea of love, just like he said that my father getting sick was fate, that it bound us together, made sure we would be in love forever. Him spoiling my sister, giving her everything he’s denying me, getting her into college, encouraging her, just another way of him showing his love for me. See, he’d probably say if I complained, you don’t appreciate anything I do for your family, Poppy. I’m just trying to help them, the way you wanted. To show you how much I care.
I pass the rest of the dinner mostly in silence. I order a seafood risotto and nibble at it as I listen to Erin and Vincent talk about the pros and cons of different colleges. Dena chimes in, too, mentioning her own degree that she’s never used because she wants exactly what I have, to be the pampered, spoiled trophy wife of some rich man, regardless of how he treats her.
She’s sitting across the table from Vincent, and I see his eyes flicking to her throughout the meal. Every time he looks at her, she beams, tossing her hair over one shoulder, seductively brushing the edge of her wine glass over her lips, pursing them around her fork with every delicate bite. “You’re so kind, Vincent,” she says finally when Vincent and Erin have a break in their conversation. “Everything you’ve given Rain and her family and me, and everything you continue to do—you really are so different from any other man I’ve met.”
I want to throw up, but Vincent is glowing. “That’s so nice of you to say, Dena.” He grins. “But how could I not want to lavish affection and beautiful things on three such gorgeous women? I’m the lucky one, having all of you out with me tonight.”
I don’t say anything, and I catch the narrowed look that Vincent throws my way, but he doesn’t say anything then or on the ride home. I know he’s going to bring it up as soon as we’re upstairs, though, and sure enough, the moment we walk through the door of our bedroom, he grabs my elbow and spins me around to face him.
“You were sullen tonight, Poppy,” he says sharply. “How many times do we have to have this discussion about your attitude? What are you, jealous that I did something nice for your sister and friend?”
“No.” I try to pull free of his grasp, but he’s holding my elbow so tightly that it hurts. There’s no chance of me getting free. “But I do want to talk to you about Erin.”
“Christ.” Vincent glares at me. “What is it now, Poppy? You’re ruining the evening, first with your behavior at dinner, and now this.” His face darkens, his eyes narrowing as he glares at me.
“I just—the prepped meals being sent here for Erin too, I think it’s a bad idea. She’s only seventeen; she doesn’t need to be dieting. I’m worried it will give her an eating disorder—she should be encouraged to listen to her body and eat what she wants, not stick to a really low-calorie diet—”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake.” Vincent’s upper lip curls. “Just because you’d eat like a little cow without supervision doesn’t mean everyone wants to, Poppy. I’m very impressed that your sister understands the importance of maintaining a good figure now. Men like a woman who doesn’t overindulge. It’s been hard to break you of that habit.”
“I don’t—I’m not—Erin’s only seventeen, Vincent, and she’s acting so much older and thinking about things that she doesn’t need to yet—”
“And yet she understands this world better than you do already,” Vincent sneers. “What will it take for you to learn, Poppy?” He pulls me forward suddenly, up close to him so that our bodies are almost touching, and his hand slides into my hair, his palm against my cheek.
“I’ve tried so hard with you, Poppy. I think it’s time you understand better what your place is here, what it takes to keep me happy and satisfied. That it’s your job as my fiancée to please me, not the other way around.”
My heart is pounding in my chest, and I bite my lip hard to keep from crying because I know it will only make things worse. “I’m sorry, Vincent, I just didn’t think—”
Vincent’s thumb moving over my cheekbone is almost tend
er, his voice gentle in a way that’s completely at odds with everything he’s saying. “Of course you didn’t think, Poppy,” he says gently. “That’s why you have me, to do that thinking for you. And right now, it’s time for a lesson in pleasing your future husband.” He gestures towards the dresser. “Go pick out some lingerie. Nothing black.”
I hesitate, feeling my stomach churn with nervousness and uncertainty as to what’s about to happen. “What—”
“Now!” He thunders, his voice raised, and I shrink back as he pushes me away from him, making a beeline for the dresser with my hands shaking.
I grab the first thing I see, a light pink babydoll chemise that ties in front of my breasts and is open the rest of the way down, with a matching sheer thong folded in with it. “Is this okay?” I ask, holding it up and willing my voice not to tremble, and Vincent smiles coldly, striding towards the bed and sitting on the edge.
“It’ll do,” he says, shrugging. “Strip and put it on.”
I can see the growing desire in his face already, and it makes me sick, knowing that he probably doesn’t really want me. He just likes controlling me, being able to force me into whatever he has planned for tonight. I can see him getting hard as I strip out of my dress and jewelry quickly, slipping into the lingerie. By the time I’m in it, Vincent has undone his belt and the front of his slacks, his hand moving slowly inside as he plays with himself lazily.
“Leave the heels on,” he says. “Come here.”
I nod shakily, walking towards him on unsteady legs, hoping I don’t do something to make him even angrier, like trip or fall. As I walk towards him, he unbuttons his shirt with one hand, letting it fall open to reveal his muscular chest. “Get on your knees, Poppy,” he says. “I don’t want your mouth yet, just your hand.”
I nod mutely, sinking to my knees and reaching for him. His cock throbs against my palm, outrageously hard, hot and already slick at the tip, and I know by now how much this turns him on, knowing that I’m completely in his power, thinking that this is some sick kind of lovemaking, where he tells me what to do, and I have no choice but to comply.