Chapter 6 Emma #2
"Just thrilled at the new clothes," I say smoothly, stepping away from him so I can breathe properly.
I step into the dressing room and close the doors behind me, though I have no reason to be here. I'm wearing my original blue dress again and draped in a diamond necklace, but I need to get away from that man.
But the dressing room walls feel like they're closing in. Through the cracked door (because privacy isn't a right I have anymore), I know Alessandro watches. My body heats under his distant gaze, beginning to crave his attention in ways that terrify me.
The woman in the mirror isn't Emma anymore. Not even pretend-Frances. She's something else entirely, something created by Alessandro's money and desire, shaped by his preferences like clay under an artist's hands.
Outside, I hear Alessandro discussing shipping arrangements with Vivian. Dozens of boxes, hundreds of thousands of dollars, all to transform me into his perfect possession. My breathing comes faster, shorter.
Who am I?
The question steals my breath. I'm not Emma the servant; she's gone, erased by marriage documents and designer clothes. I'm not Frances Hewson; she never existed in my body. I'm just… his. His creation. His possession.
I stare at this expensive stranger wearing my face, and something inside me dissolves. I press my palm against the mirror, trying to reach the servant girl trapped behind the glass, but she's already fading, already becoming a ghost.
"Mrs. Rosetti?" Vivian's voice through the door. "Your husband is asking for you."
Your husband. The words make the room feel even smaller, the air harder to breathe.
I'm drowning in luxury, suffocating on silk and diamonds.
I'm beginning to understand the real trap: it's not the mansion or the clothes or even the locked doors.
It's how my treacherous body is starting to crave his attention, how my skin burns for his touch even as my mind screams danger.
I stare at myself one more time, this expensive stranger wearing my face, and make a decision born of pure panic.
I need to disappear. Not back to being Emma. Not to playing Frances. Just… gone. I realize with crystal clarity: I'd rather be nobody than this glittering fiction he's creating. I have to run before I disappear entirely into Mrs. Alessandro Rosetti.
My hands fumble with the clasp on the diamond necklace and then I fling it onto the floor and slide out the back curtain of the dressing room that leads to storage, and then out the first door I see.
The alley behind Celeste's smells like garbage. My heels click against the concrete as I run, no plan, no destination, just the desperate need to escape.
Three blocks. That's all I manage before I hear his voice.
"Frances."
Not shouted. Not angry. Just said with that quiet authority that makes people stop mid-step, that makes my body respond before my mind can object. I keep running, but my body's already betraying me, slowing without my permission.
His fingers wrap around my arm, firm but careful, like he's catching something precious that might break.
The care in his touch confuses me more than force would.
When he turns me to face him, I'm prepared for rage.
Instead, I find something worse: hurt flickering in those green eyes, genuine confusion mixed with something that looks almost like concern.
My body recognizes his touch before my mind processes it, leaning into his warmth even as I want to pull away. This betrayal hurts worse than anything: my own skin choosing him over freedom.
"Where are you going?" he asks softly, his thumb stroking the inside of my wrist where my pulse hammers.
"Away. Anywhere. I can't—" My voice breaks. "I can't do this."
"Do what?"
"Be whoever you're trying to make me into with those clothes and jewels. I'm nobody, don't you understand? Nobody." The words pour out, dangerous and true.
He studies my face. His thumb brushes my cheek, catching a tear I didn't know had fallen, and the gentleness makes everything worse.
"You have nowhere else to go," he says, and it's not cruel. It's just true. Devastatingly, horribly true.
"That's not—" I start, but he cuts me off with a shake of his head.
"Where would you sleep tonight? Your parents won't take you back. You were bred to marry, and I'll never divorce you, so what else would you do?" Each question lands hard. "You're Mrs. Alessandro Rosetti now. That's who you are. The only identity that matters."
I scoff. I wasn't bred to marry, I was bred to serve. But with him, there is little difference.
"Come back," he says, and it's not quite a command. "Let me take care of you."
The fight drains from my body. He takes my hand, caught but gentle, and leads me back toward Michigan Avenue. Back toward the boutique. Back to being Frances.
"Those photographers across the street," he says quietly, "they're watching us right now.
Wondering why Alessandro Rosetti is standing on a sidewalk with his runaway bride.
By tomorrow, the photos will be everywhere.
The Hewson princess who tried to escape her Rosetti husband.
" His eyes search mine. "Is that what you want? To humiliate us both?"
"No." The word comes out broken. "I don't want to hurt you."
Something flickers across his face: surprise, maybe. Like he didn't expect me to care about his feelings in this arranged marriage built on lies.
"Then come inside. Wear the beautiful clothes. Play the part." His voice drops lower. "Stop fighting what you can't change."
He's right. This truth breaks what's left of my resistance. I have nowhere else to be, no other life waiting for me. The cage door is open, but there's nothing beyond it except empty space where Emma used to exist.