Chapter 3
"Josephine Shaw?" the blonde asked, her Russian accent thick and melodious.
I nodded, suddenly feeling small and unkempt. "Yes, that's me."
A fit of embarrassment hit me. I was glad my mother was working late, Logan went out with friends and my father was smoking cigars with a couple of his crew members in the equipment shed.
"Excellent. I am Evelina Kournova, Mr. Ashworth's personal stylist. This is my assistant, Mila. May we come in?"
Before I could fully process what was happening, my tiny living room had been transformed into an impromptu dressing room. Mila efficiently draped twelve stunning gowns over the couches and kitchen chairs while Evelina circled me, her gaze appraising.
"Strip down to your undergarments, please," Evelina instructed, her tone leaving no room for argument.
As I complied, feeling exposed and vulnerable, Evelina nodded approvingly. "Good, good. We start with this one."
The next hour passed in a blur of silk, tulle, and sequins. I felt like a living doll, being dressed and redressed at Evelina's whim.
The first gown was a deep emerald silk that clung to my curves before flaring out dramatically at the knees. As Evelina zipped me in, she murmured, "Colson loves green. It reminds him of money."
I grimaced at the implication but was distracted by the towering stilettos Mila slipped onto my feet – black patent leather with red soles that made me wobble precariously.
"Next," Evelina declared, already reaching for another dress.
This time, it was a backless red number with a dangerously high slit. The fabric whispered against my skin as Evelina adjusted the straps.
"Too provocative," she muttered, shaking her head. "We want to entice, not overwhelm."
As she helped me out of the dress, I couldn't help but ask, "Do you do this for all of Colson's... potential fiancées?"
Evelina's eyes met mine in the mirror, a flicker of something – pity? amusement? – passing through them. "No, milaya darling . You are... special."
Before I could probe further, I was being laced into a midnight blue gown adorned with tiny crystals that caught the light with every movement. The accompanying shoes were silver strappy sandals with heels so thin I feared they might snap under my weight.
"This," Evelina breathed, "this is the one."
As I gazed at my reflection, barely recognizing the elegant woman staring back at me, a chill ran down my spine. I looked like I belonged in Colson's world now, but at what cost?
"Perfect," Evelina declared, her smile not quite reaching her eyes. "Mr. Ashworth will be most pleased."
As they packed up the chosen dress and shoes, leaving a couple of others behind just in case, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I had just taken another step deeper into a world I might never be able to escape.
"Milaya, Colson wanted me to tell you that your makeup artist and hairstylist will be here at 4 p.m. tomorrow," Evelina said, her Russian accent lilting over the words.
I felt the blood drain from my face. "W... what?"
Evelina's lips curled into a knowing smile. "Colson's orders. You're a lucky girl," she purred as she and her assistant swept out of my home, leaving behind a cloud of expensive perfume and a growing sense of dread.
As soon as the door clicked shut, I scrambled back into my sweatpants and t-shirt, as if the comfortable clothes could shield me from the reality of what was happening. My mind raced, piecing together the puzzle of Colson's actions.
This wasn't just interest; it was a calculated move. The sinking feeling in my gut told me that the other invitees were likely just a front. Colson had every intention of making me his fiancée.
I gathered up the three dresses and shoes, their weight seeming to increase with each step as I struggled up the narrow stairway to my room. An hour later, Logan found me curled up on my bed, silent tears streaking my face.
He sat down, pulling me into his arms. I buried my face in his shoulder, unable to tell him about Colson's stylist or my growing fears.
"You'll be fine," Logan murmured, his hand rubbing soothing circles on my back. He pulled away slightly, his eyes scanning the room. "Where did the dresses come from? I thought you were going out with Mom?"
I sniffled, guilt twisting in my stomach as I lied. "She had to work late. Colson sent them over. He sent over his personal stylist."
Logan's eyebrows shot up. "I'm sure that will go over well when the others find out," he said, a hint of amusement in his voice.
Suddenly, all the fear and frustration I'd been holding back burst forth. Anger welled up in my chest, hot and fierce. "Fuck them," I spat. "I'm sick of these rich bitches."
The vehemence in my voice seemed to surprise Logan. I’d spent so much of my young life feeling inadequate around the wealthy of our community. This was my chance to show them up.
He pulled back, studying my face with concern. "Joey, what's really going on?"
I opened my mouth, ready to spill everything – the stylist, my suspicions about Colson's intentions, the suffocating feeling of being trapped. But the words caught in my throat. How could I explain something I barely understood myself?
Instead, I shook my head, forcing a weak smile. "Nothing. I'm just nervous about tomorrow."
As Logan hugged me again, promising everything would be okay, I couldn't shake the feeling that I was standing on the edge of a precipice. And tomorrow night, at Colson's party, I might just fall over the edge.
I tossed and turned in bed, sleep eluding me once again. The weight of tomorrow's events pressed down on me, making the air in my tiny room feel thick and suffocating. Finally, I threw off the covers and slipped out of the house, desperate for some fresh air.
The late May night was cool and still as I made my way across the grounds. My bare feet sank into the dew-dampened grass, grounding me. I found myself drawn to the beautiful gardens, their manicured paths and elegant benches a stark contrast to the tumultuous thoughts swirling in my head.
I settled onto a bench, breathing in the sweet scent of night-blooming jasmine. For a moment, I felt at peace.
"Couldn't sleep either, huh?"
The voice startled me, and I whirled around to see Vaughn emerging from the shadows. My heart rate spiked, a mix of fear and something else I couldn't quite name coursing through me.
"Vaughn," I breathed, taking in his disheveled appearance and the bottle of Jack Daniel's dangling from his hand. "You’re out late."
He laughed bitterly, taking a long swig from the bottle. "Celebrating," he said, his words slightly slurred. "My father's grand plan coming to fruition."
I stiffened. "You know about tomorrow?"
Vaughn's eyes, usually sharp and mocking, were clouded with something that looked almost like pain. "Oh, I know all about it. Dear old Dad's latest power play."
He stumbled closer, and I found myself rooted to the spot. To my surprise, he gently cupped my cheek, his touch softer than I'd ever experienced from him.
"Joey," he whispered, his breath warm against my skin. "You have no idea what you're walking into."
Before I could respond, his lips were on mine. The kiss was passionate, desperate, nothing like the cruel smirks and biting remarks I was used to from Vaughn. To my shock, I found myself kissing him back, my hands tangling in his hair.
When we finally broke apart, both breathing heavily, Vaughn rested his forehead against mine. "You have to leave," he said urgently. "Get as far away from here as you can."
"What?" I asked, still dazed from the kiss. "Vaughn, I can't leave."
"You don't understand," he interrupted, his voice cracking. "If my father chooses you – and he will – he'll suck all the good out of you. He'll twist you into something you're not."
I pulled back, searching his face. "Why do you care? You’ve done nothing but made my life miserable for the past fifteen years."
Vaughn's laugh was hollow. "Because I've seen it happen before. And you..." he trailed off, his hand ghosting over my cheek once more. "You don't deserve that."
As I stood there, caught between Vaughn's unexpected vulnerability and the looming specter of tomorrow's party, I felt more lost than ever. The peace I'd sought in the garden was shattered, replaced by a storm of confusion and conflicting emotions.
"I have to go," I whispered, backing away from Vaughn. As I turned to flee, his voice followed me into the darkness.
"Remember what I said, Joey. It's not too late to run."
I ran back to the house, my mind reeling.
Vaughn's warning echoed in my ears, mingling with the memory of his kiss.
As I slipped back into bed, I knew sleep would be impossible now.
Tomorrow loomed before me, full of more questions than answers, and the terrifying possibility that Vaughn might be right.
I stared at the dark ceiling, time slipping away unnoticed as my mind raced.
The weight of my decision pressed down on me, suffocating in its intensity.
If I left, I'd be throwing my family to the wolves.
If I stayed, I might end up as Colson's bride—a fate that filled me with dread.
There was no easy way out of this labyrinth, and I clung desperately to the notion that I was doing this for my family.
It was the only thing keeping me from running.
As the dark blue light of dawn seeped through the blinds, I finally succumbed to exhaustion.
When I woke, just before 11 a.m., the house was eerily quiet.
Saturday—my parents wouldn't be back until noon, and Logan was probably still dead to the world, dreaming of whatever adventures he'd have with his friends later. Friends. What a foreign concept.
My gaze fell on the dress hanging over my closet door, the heels placed neatly by my desk.
In mere hours, I'd be transformed into a vision of elegance—a carefully crafted illusion.
I'd sip champagne and mingle with Windmere Haven's elite, all while waiting for my turn to be paraded before Colson like cattle at auction.
The whole process felt cold, mechanical.
I couldn't help but wonder if Colson took such painstaking care with the other women he'd invited.
Was Evelina Kournova making house calls to all of them, or was I receiving special treatment?
Were they all being primped and prodded into perfect little dolls, vying for the chance to become his wife?
A wave of nausea washed over me as I contemplated whether the other women were excited about this prospect.
I certainly wasn't. My head throbbed, a dull reminder of my almost sleepless night.
As I sat up in bed, the reality of what was to come in the next few hours settled over me like a shroud.
Soon, the hairstylist and makeup artist would arrive, ready to mold me into someone I barely recognized.
I stumbled to the bathroom for the third time, my stomach churning as I heard my mother walk through the front door.
The tea and toast I'd forced down earlier had done nothing to settle my nerves—they'd only given me something to throw up.
Now, perched over the white porcelain bowl, I was reduced to dry heaves that wracked my entire body.
A soft knock on the door was followed by my mother's concerned voice. "Joey, are you all right?"
"Fine," I managed to croak out, the lie tasting as bitter as the bile in my throat. Another wave of nausea hit me, and I gripped the toilet bowl tighter.
When I finally emerged, pale and shaky, my mother was waiting. Her face was etched with worry, her eyes searching mine. "You don't have to do this," she said softly, reaching out to brush a strand of hair from my clammy forehead. "We discussed it. You can say no."
I met her gaze, trying to muster a strength I didn't feel. "You know that won't end well for any of us," I replied, my voice hoarse. I leaned against the doorframe, suddenly exhausted. "We're not financially prepared for Colson's wrath."
My mother's teeth worried at her bottom lip, a habit she'd had for as long as I could remember. She knew the truth of my words, even if she didn't want to admit it. We had nowhere to go, our closest relatives a world away in Iowa. Our old Chevy wouldn't make it halfway there.
I straightened up, squaring my shoulders. "And I have plans for the future," I added, a hint of defiance creeping into my tone. "I didn't work my ass off at Yale just to end up doing menial labor for the rest of my life. I want better than that. You and Dad deserve better than that."
The words hung in the air between us, heavy with unspoken fears and dreams. My mother's eyes glistened with unshed tears, and for a moment, I saw the weight of guilt settle on her shoulders.
But I couldn't back down now. This was about more than just me—it was about our family's future, about the life I'd fought so hard to build.
She nodded and her gaze faded far away. I’d always felt there was something from her past, from both my parents’ pasts that kept them here. We didn’t fit into this place and it was like we didn’t belong, ever.
As we stood there in the hallway, the ticking of the clock seemed to grow louder, reminding us that time was running out.
In a few short hours, I'd be stepping into a world of glitz and glamour, playing a part in a game where the stakes were higher than I'd ever imagined.
And despite the fear gnawing at my insides, I knew I had to see it through.