Chapter 15
Fifteen
Blair
The salon my mother selected for me is bustling with activity when we arrive, exactly ten minutes before my scheduled appointment. It’s exactly the sort of place I expected she’d send me; chic, upscale, and apparently inhabited exclusively by rich, middle-aged women.
All of whom give my frowning companion their full attention when we step inside.
Heads turn. Conversations falter. One woman actually swivels in her chair for a better view, her eyes lingering openly, while another smiles at him like she’s just been handed a piece of fat-free cheesecake.
My stomach twists.
“You must be Blair!” exclaims my stylist, who appears from a back room. She plasters on the fakest smile I’ve ever seen as she leans in to air-kiss me twice, missing my cheeks entirely.
“I’m Stephanie,” she announces, beckoning us to follow her farther into the gleaming salon. “Lady Porter was kind enough to send over extensive notes.”
Of course she did.
I catch my reflection in the mirror as Stephanie steers me into a chair—eyes wide, shoulders hunched forward. Over my shoulder, Mallory is lingering a step behind my stylist, hands in his pockets, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else.
The feeling is mutual.
“And you.” Stephanie rounds on him, landing a light, flirty swat on his bicep.
“You are welcome to have a seat over there.” She points to a small waiting area in the center of the ring of salon chairs, where a few ladies are already stationed with their hair in foil, pretending to flip through magazines in between sneaking peeks at him.
He meets my eyes in the mirror, but looks away just as quickly, retreating to the area Stephanie indicated. The moment he sits, one woman leans toward him, saying something I can’t hear. He doesn’t move closer, but he smiles politely at her, and it makes him look like a stranger.
Probably because he has never looked at me with anything other than frustration or dislike.
When I got the call from Candice about the trip today, I was excited.
Obviously. Getting out of Thornhurst for the day, buying new clothes, and getting made up sounded like paradise.
It didn’t take long before the initial buoyancy began to fade, however, and every minute I spent in the car with Mallory, my stomach dropped a little further.
I just… I don't want to mess it up.
God knows my family has never exactly seen me as an asset, and after those pictures, my status dropped from least favorite child, right down to ugly family heirloom we keep in the attic out of obligation.
Being invited along today is good, a sign that the ice may be thawing a little, and I’m determined not to waste the opportunity to show them I’m not as useless as they think.
I don’t complain as Stephanie trots me around the salon like a prize pony, determined to transform me into a more palatable version of myself.
I don’t complain as my hair is washed, attacked with a pair of shears, and layered in highlights, supposedly intended to “soften the natural color.”
Or when my eyebrows are plucked until my eyes run.
Or as the makeup I got up early to do myself is wiped away, replaced instead with a look that’s more “elegant” and reminds me of my mother.
And, all the while, Damien Mallory lingers in the corner of my vision, barely visible in Stephanie’s mirror. Every time I open my eyes after another round of transformation, they seem to be dragged right back to him.
Since getting the news, I’ve been too preoccupied by the prospect of “family time” in Wyngate to spend much time thinking about what happened in the forest yesterday.
As I watch Mallory being charmed by an endless rotation of rich, glossy, perfect, age-appropriate women, however… I can’t not think about it.
The man has made it really clear he hates everything about me, and that he thinks I’m immature, idiotic, and spoiled. But, even with all that, I made him hard.
I wonder if he hates being attracted to me as much as I hate being attracted to him.
When Stephanie is finally finished with me, and I’m allowed back on my feet, he’s at my side in an instant.
“Finished?”
“Yup.”
My stylist, who seems to have misconstrued the nature of our relationship, glares at him playfully. “Isn’t she gorgeous?”
Before he’s even opened his mouth, my belly goes hard, instinctively bracing for impact. I’m not disappointed. Mallory offers me the most perfunctory, brief glance before his lips twist, as if he’s tasted something foul. “That’s not the word I would use, no.”
And with that, he sweeps me from the salon and out onto the street.
“You could have at least been polite,” I tell him bitterly, as we march along the sidewalk toward the public garage where we parked.
It’s a glorious autumn day, and the city is bustling, its inhabitants eager to take advantage of the last pleasant weather before winter sinks its claws into Stelland.
It’s hard to enjoy any of it, however, as the man at my side lets out a hard, humorless laugh. “You want me to lie?”
On an ordinary day, I would have a retort for that.
I’d think of something clever and insulting to throw right back at him.
He wouldn’t know he hurt me, or made me feel small, and I’d be able to walk away from this interaction with my head held high.
Today, though… I don’t know what’s wrong with me.
So, I stay quiet.
My appointment at the salon ran slightly longer than expected, so we needed to hustle to make it across the city to the luxury department store, Century, where my mother set up an appointment with her personal stylist.
This place, thankfully, doesn’t seem to operate entirely at the whim of Lydia Porter.
The private showroom we’re led to is pleasantly cozy and warm, with a couch, beverage station, and a door leading off into the dressing area.
Rack after rack of pre-pulled garments are arranged along the far wall, and I must not be too downtrodden, because I take one look at the pantsuits my mother had them pull and flat out laugh.
“Can you find me some things that would be appropriate for someone under the age of sixty?” I ask the shopper as I step up onto a small platform before a fan of mirrors, allowing her to verify my measurements.
She agrees without hesitation, offering me a commiserating look that assures me I’m in good hands, and heads off to pull some things.
Left alone, I look to Mallory, who wasted no time taking up residence on the couch, and is typing away on his phone. “So, if you worked at the palace, you must have lived here in Wyngate, huh?” I ask, attempting to distract myself from the unsettled restlessness gnawing away inside me.
He doesn’t so much as glance at me. “Yes.”
“I bet you know the best food places. Do we have time to get something to eat after this? I’m starving.” The only thing I’ve eaten today is a bag of chips from the convenience store we stopped at on the drive, and my stomach is objecting accordingly.
“You didn’t bring a three-course meal in that giant bag of yours?” He nods to the tote leaning against the side of the dressing platform.
“What? No. I brought clothes.”
That has his attention, and he finally looks up at me, eyes wide with disbelief. “Why are we here, then?”
“For something to wear to dinner, and any other events they may need me at.” I look away, wandering over to the beverage station in the hopes of finding a snack.
My heart lifts at the little packs of biscuits I find there.
Taking one, I lean back against the counter, fidgeting with the wrapper.
“It felt shitty to walk into a building full of people who are struggling, wearing expensive clothes. So I brought some other things. Simpler, you know?”
Satan looks back to his phone, a tension in his shoulders that wasn’t present a moment ago.
Bitterly, I shove a biscuit into my mouth, chewing it as I glare at the back of his head.
“Alright, I think we have a good start here,” my stylist announces as she backs into the room, her arms laden with a fresh selection of clothes.
She winks at me as she takes them into the dressing room and reemerges a moment later.
“I’m going to go grab some things from the new winter collection, it hasn’t even hit the floor yet. I’ll be back soon to check on you.”
I let out a heavy sigh when she’s gone and toss the biscuit wrapper into the bin as I traipse into the smaller dressing room, my shoulders heavy. Closing the door behind me, I turn to the rack of clothes and blink, staring in surprise at what she pulled.
The wink is making a lot more sense, because it’s clear my hair stylist wasn’t the only one who thought the scowling giant on the couch outside was my boyfriend.
Along with a few perfectly respectable but still trendy dresses, there is a dazzling selection of lingerie and sleepwear—absolutely none of which is designed to remain on one’s body for very long.
In a daze, I reach out, running my fingers over the many hangers of satin and lace as a flame leaps in my belly.
The man just outside the door might hate me, but his hard cock pressed against me yesterday meant more than his being attracted to me.
It means I have a weapon, and with it, I can make Damien Mallory hate himself. Just like he makes me hate myself.
My lips curve as I reach for the first one that caught my eye, a pink lace babydoll which comes with a matching pair of cheeky panties.
The demi-cups aren’t transparent, and the panties are the same, but the garment reveals plenty, and I’m almost dizzy with the rush of adrenaline that comes as I put them on.
There is no mirror in here, but I feel hot, and that will have to do.
I reach out but pause with my fingers on the handle to the dressing room, blood rushing in my ears.