5. Yasmina
Yasmina
J afar’s gone when I wake. This time, there’s no denying the disappointment. I’m a fool and a half for wanting him, for wanting to spend time with him, but I can’t control my emotions. If that were possible, I’d be tempted to banish them completely.
I wander into the kitchen in search of coffee and find a pot waiting for me. The fridge contains my favorite creamer, newly purchased by the expiration date. I hadn’t realized he noticed such small details. I don’t think I’ve ever even seen Jafar in the morning before.
Not that it’s morning now. I’ve slept past noon.
Next to the coffee maker is a sticky note with a schedule written on it in short, bold strokes.
2 p.m.—Stylist
8 p.m.—Be ready
Just that. Nothing more. Then again, I suppose I don’t need to know more. As much as I want to bar the door against the stylist out of spite, the truth is that I need clothing. It’s the only armor I’ve ever owned, and being without has me on edge.
I check the clock. I have enough time to shower and get ready to meet this stylist. Putting even that much effort exhausts me, but I can’t afford to waver now. Not when I don’t know what tonight—what the future—will bring. I need every weapon at my disposal.
An hour and a half later, I’m wrapped in a short robe nearly identical to the one Jafar ruined the night before, my hair done and my makeup impeccable. It doesn’t escape my notice that Jafar had the bathroom stocked with my brands, all shiny and new.
He planned this.
I knew, of course. Jafar isn’t one to leave anything to chance. But knowing that he ordered this room outfitted for me… I can’t tell if I like it or loathe it. It seems to be an overarching theme when it comes to me and Jafar.
The stylist shows up early.
She’s a short, curvy woman with shoulder-length blond hair and an attitude that conveys an instant chip on her shoulder.
Her high-waisted trousers and fitted white blouse look classy and sexy at the same time, and she raises a single pierced eyebrow when she sees me. “Dear god, we have so much work to do.”
“Excuse me?”
“No need to excuse anything, princess.” She turns back to the elevator and snaps her fingers. Two hulking men wheel out rack after rack of clothing in a rainbow of colors. Another snap of her fingers and they disappear back into the elevator.
I can’t tell if they’re her men or Jafar’s, but they obeyed her without blinking. I envy her that power. My father’s men only ever obeyed me out of fear of him. I imagine Jafar’s men will do the same. Never because of the threat I pose or the power I wield.? 1
She arranges the racks in the living room and then points to a spot in the center. “Stand here. Robe off.”
I don’t move. I may bend to Jafar because I have no choice, but this woman is under the mistaken impression than I’m a cowering flower just waiting to be trampled. “Some courtesy would do you good.”
The blond rolls her green eyes. “Yeah, that isn’t how this works. I’m the best at what I do, and being the best means you listen to me, not the other way around.” She points to the spot again and injects enough sugar into her tone to give me a cavity. “Unless you’d rather walk around naked?”
She has me cornered and she knows it. I grit my teeth. I know better than to bargain from a weak position where I have nothing to gain and everything to lose. This is just a job to her. “If you don’t dress me, you don’t get paid.”
“Cute.” She smirks. “Contract says I get half up front. You throw a hissy fit, that money’s still mine and I have a free afternoon. You don’t have the leverage, so you might as well give it up now.”
I hate that she’s right.
I stalk to the spot she indicated and shrug out of the robe.
The woman whistles. “No wonder Jafar lost his godsforsaken mind over you.” She circles me, her gaze calculating. “Jewel tones, yes. Perfect. Just perfect.” As if I’m a piece of art rather than a person.
I’ve botched this. I need allies, not enemies. I take a deep breath and do my best to banish my anger. It’s not even directed at her, not really. She’s just a convenient target that turned out to be not that convenient. “I’m Yasmina.”
“I know.” She rifles through the first rack. “I’m Tink. No, we can’t be friends. No, I don’t have any useful information for you to mine. No, I won’t do anything to compromise my contract.”
Well, so much for that offer of an olive branch. Strangely enough, her abruptness has already started to grow on me. She’s like being slapped in the face with an arctic wind—cold and bitter and somehow refreshing all the same. “You have a contract with Jafar?”
She shoots me an exasperated look. “No, of course not. Who the hell has contracts with Jafar?” At my look of confusion, she frowns harder. “Holy crap, you really have no idea how this works, do you?”
“It might help if you explain,” I say mildly.? 2
Tink lifts up a red dress that seems more holes than fabric. She holds it up, nods to herself, and sets it aside. “Not my job, princess.”
“I’m not a princess.”
“You’re Yasmina Sarraf, daughter of Balthazar Sarraf. That’s as close to royalty as it gets in Carver City. At least in Sarraf’s piece of it.”
It’s not a point I’m willing to argue, because she’s right. “How do you know Jafar?”
“Other than by reputation, I don’t.” She considers a green dress and puts it back onto the rack.
Tink looks at me and sighs. “I’m not a comforter.
We’re not going to bond over our mutually shitty circumstances and become besties in the course of a few hours while I do the job I was hired to do. That’s not how this works.”
Silly to feel a sting over that realization. Sillier still to be so desperate for companionship that I reach out to anyone unconnected with my father who crosses my path. I sigh. “I won’t put you in the difficult position of making small talk, then.”
A ghost of a smile pulls at Tink’s full lips. She really is a cute little thing and full of the attitude of someone ten times her size. “You can small talk all you want. I just want to make it clear that I want no part of some harebrained escape scheme you’re no doubt coming up with as we speak.”
Curiosity sparks in me, a welcome relief to the confusion and anger. “Do your clients often come up with harebrained escape schemes?”
“My clients? No. Their women—and men in some cases? Almost always.” She shrugs. “The world is a strange place sometimes.”
“Apparently.” Oh yes, I’m curious now. I accept the red dress she hands me and pull it on. As Tink moves around me again, this time with pins and a concentrated expression, I can’t help but ask my next question. “Have you ever been tempted to help?”
“Once,” she answers around the pins in her mouth and then uses one to nip in the waist of the dress. “It didn’t end well. Not for me and not for them.” She pins the other side and stands back. “Oh yeah, I’m good.”
I look down my body. The red dress clings to me like a second skin, dipping down low between my breasts and even lower in the back. It’s slit up both sides nearly to the hip. “It’s indecent.”
“Exactly.” She frowns and adjusts the front of it, businesslike despite the fact that she has her hands all over my breasts.
“You’ll need tape for this.” She frowns hard.
“Then again, if you’re going to the Underworld, tape is a shitty-ass idea.
Someone will end up ripping it off, and then you’ll have sore nips. ”
I blink. “I think you’ll need to run that past me again.”
Tink starts to laugh, but the sound dies almost immediately. Her green eyes go wide. “The Underworld. Carver City’s worst-kept secret, the sex dungeon to end all sex dungeons? The place where most of the business in this godsforsaken city goes down?”
I’ve never heard of such a thing. I know what sex dungeons are—I do read—but only in the most fictional sense.
I had no idea that one existed in my city.
Though can it really be considered my city if I’ve never set foot in it?
Jafar’s penthouse might stand in what appears to be downtown, but it hardly counts as visiting.
My father’s home definitely doesn’t count.
“Off with the dress.” She gives an impatient motion with her fingers.
Everything about Tink radiates impatience, but I suspect it’s nothing personal. I should have recognized that from the beginning.
I carefully extract myself from the dress and pull on the next one she shoves into my hands. It’s black and feels wicked against my skin. The V on this one isn’t quite as deep, but it’s short enough that I can’t stop myself from tugging at the hem.
“Stop that.” She smacks my hands. “You look uncomfortable, and uncomfortable is not sexy. Confidence is sexy.”
“I’m aware of that,” I bite out. “Flashing my pussy at everyone I come into contact with isn’t my idea of a good time.”
“You’re missing out.” She tugs the dress a little and nods to herself. “This one won’t need adjusting. Good. You’ve got a rocking bod, princess.”
That almost sounded like a compliment. “Thanks?” Why do I care what this woman thinks of me and my body? I push the thought away, already knowing I won’t find the answer appealing. “Tell me about the Underworld.”
“Not much to tell. It’s your typical classy joint, except people go there to fuck in kinky ways. Some of them are employed by the dungeon. Some of them are patrons.”
“Is Jafar a patron?” I shake my head. “What am I saying? He must be if we’re going there.”
“Mmm.” Not an answer, but it turns out I don’t need one.
At her motion, I exchange the black dress for a deep jade-green one.
And on it goes. Tink dodges most of my questions, but halfway through our time together, she actually stops insulting me.
Progress, but I have the sinking feeling that I won’t be seeing much of her in the future.
How often does one need a stylist? More accurately—how often does an owned woman need a stylist?