Let's get on with it, shall we?
Thank you Lara, Nicki & Sam :)
Chapter 6.
I run to my room, shaky and disgusted and anxious, tugging at my shirt, wincing at the seam of my jeans that presses in between my thighs.
Once I'm in my room, I lock the door and shove the heavy leather chair in front of it. It's not much but it brings me a sense of security. Safety.
Alone is when I feel the safest. At ease. At least a little.
The light in my bathroom makes me squint. I cry even harder, my heart breaking even more than it already had. It breaks more each time he touches me.
I look at myself in the large mirror over the sink. It makes me sob, black mascara tracks all over my face. My eyes are dull and glassy-looking, hazy, like part of me has been sedated from the inside out. A sliver of red breaks up my pale complexion, my cheek looking angry as it tingles.
My fingers trace my lips, trace the slight slit in my top one, pain shooting through me as I touch raw, naked skin, dried-up blood crusted and crumbling at my fingertips.
I turn around and fall to the floor as I can't keep anything down. My guts churn, my insides and regrets and my everything emptying out in the toilet bowl.
I feel sick even after but I'm dry heaving, my stomach in knots, my throat burning.
As I turn on the shower, someone knocks on my door.
Alistair never knocks.
Maria, the housekeeper, doesn't come up here at this hour. She's done and going home by ten.
I'm rattled but scrape myself off the floor anyway, clutching my stomach, eyes watery, a feverish feeling washing over me, sweat pooling at the base of my spine.
"Who is it?" My voice is foreign to my ears, dead and empty. I can't muster up the courage to even hide it.
"We need to leave for your appointment."
It's Masen.
I wonder if he's heard anything. If he's aware of my toxic husband and his antics. Then again, the basement is pretty far out of earshot of the office. He might not have heard anything at all.
"Mrs. Anderson?" He knocks again.
I'm panicking, looking around my room as if I'll find something that'll help me out of this situation.
I clear my throat and conjure up the fakest of smiles. People can always hear it in your voice if you're smiling even though it's fake as fuck.
My cheeks hurt from the effort but I pull through and take a few steadying breaths.
"I'll need another fifteen, Masen. I—ah," I take another breath, adjust the smile. "I've got one foot in the shower. If you could call the salon, ask for Rosalie. Just tell her I'll be a little later."
There's nothing but silence on the other side of the door.
"I'm not your secretary, Mrs. Anderson. Or your PA." I can hear the agitation in his voice.
"I know, I'm sorry," I apologize. "Promise this won't take long."
I bite my tongue, wait for his response.
"Fine," Masen bites. "Just this once." His footsteps retreat, and I hear his boots knock on the steps of the wooden staircase.
I bought some time but I'll need to get started on damage control.
I stuff my shirt and underwear into the bin in my bathroom, piling cotton rounds and tissues over them so Maria won't ask any questions.
The water of the shower is scalding hot, my skin hurting and tugging from the heat as I step under the stream. I'm being careful not to wet my hair since I'm getting a cut and color at the salon and Rose prefers to dye on dry hair.
I scrub every inch of my body a million times, the loofah cutting into my skin. I'm using way too much body wash but I still feel filthy, disgusting by the time my phone alerts me that eight minutes have passed.
Seven minutes left.
Rummaging through the contents of my makeup drawer, I take the full coverage Armani foundation and a sponge. It takes me four minutes to apply the base, stacking concealer over concealer until my complexion is solid alabaster, every trace of my husband's hand invisible to a stranger's eye.
I take bright red lipstick and follow the curves of my lips, overdrawing the top one slightly so the cut is gone and taken care of. I've mastered this over the years.
Alistair would kill me if I went out all bruised and beaten for the world to see. Now it's only on the inside; the outside picture of me poised and put-together.
I throw a long-sleeved black maxi dress on that hides my arm and ends at the bridge of my feet before I take red strapping sandals. I know it's too dressed up for the hairdresser, but I hardly care. It's better to overdo it than to show up in a torn shirt.
As I shove the leather chair out of the way, there's another knock.
"We really have to leave, Mrs. Anderson… Your hairdresser's day was booked solid."
I swing the door open and meet his gaze. I don't know what emotion swirls around in them, but we're locking eyes in silence for a heartbeat, and it feels uncomfortable.
"Are you okay?" he asks. I notice his voice has a little gentler edge to it before he stares at my outfit, my face.
"Yeah, sorry I took so long. I couldn't find my ah…shoes." It's dumb but it works. After all, I'm just a dumb and superficial socialite. Alistair made sure people saw me that way. No job, no nothing. Charity work for rich people and shopping. That's all he allows me to do.
Masen mutters something about women in general as I walk past him.
I only notice his change of outfit then and there, the cargo pants and cotton shirt switched for a black button-down and slacks. Even his boots are gone, replaced by shiny Oxford shoes that don't have the slightest scuff on them. They look brand new.
"Is there a dress code I'm unaware of?" I ask.
He turns his head to look at me, the collar of his shirt starched and giving me a glimpse of those tattoos again. He looks as uncomfortable as I feel. One of his brows arch, but I still haven't managed to make him smile. Or smirk. Or have any expression on his face except for that stoic one he always sports. I know it's a mask. I recognize those from a mile away.
Takes one to know one.
"Mr. Mayor insists on these when I'm on duty," he remarks.
It's all I need to hear because of course Alistair would want the security guard to be dressed to the nines, impeccable, and up to his standards.
I huff, pray he doesn't notice as I play it off as a cough before walking down the stairs behind him.
It's not his style at all, I can tell. He looked more confident in his clothing from before but this suit gives Masen a new sense of arrogance. The shirt stretches out over his broad shoulders and muscles, black, soft expensive slacks hugging his thighs, his ass. His body looks carved, more tattoos peeking from under the back of his collar as he walks with his head down, watching his steps.
He's still a menacing wolf. Only now he's wrapped up in designer. He's danger in Dolce.
An even bigger threat than before.