Chapter Six #3
But I don’t have any reason to be. Because this is part of the plan.
And if my body is reacting, then good. The truth is, if it comes down to me having to sleep with him, to me finally breaking my vow of chastity, then there are far worse ways it could happen.
After all, I’m already pregnant; he can’t get me pregnant again.
And additionally, I do find him attractive.
Even though I despise it. But it kind of makes sense.
This situation is messed up. There are tricky power dynamics all over everything.
And that feels like a hallmark of everything that would be designed to appeal to me.
Because I’m not a girl who could ever engage in something harmless.
Maybe subconsciously I’ve known that about myself.
I’m not the kind of woman who could ever take easy or uncomplicated.
Everything in my life that I’ve ever cared about I’ve fought and scrapped for.
I’ve dug my claws right into. A man, I assume, would be no exception.
Maybe that’s part of what’s always held me back.
I tell myself that it’s fear of pregnancy, or being distracted, but it’s probably deeper than distraction.
I don’t drink. I don’t use substances of any kind. I’m convinced that addiction is an inherited trait. If you look at my family, you can’t prove any different. I stay away from things that can be addicting.
I look at his cheekbones, his mouth. A good suit is pornography to me, and he’s triple X. I fear that this man could be the finest cocaine for me. And I just know better than to put myself in that position. I’m not strong.
But it’s sort of like being undercover, I suppose, at this point. There may come a moment when you have to try the product.
I feel irritated with my line of thinking. Because it’s very much me making excuses. Excuses for why it’s okay for me to feel flattered by this beautiful man looking at me. Excuses for why it’s okay for me to entertain the thought of having sex with a man this dangerous.
As if the danger isn’t a feature. As if it doesn’t say things about me that I’ve long ago expected, and feel quite frightened of.
I don’t have the luxury of being frightened right now.
“Well,” I say. “Show me.”
“This way,” he says, gesturing with that chiseled chin. He’s so angular I feel like I could cut my fingers on his sculpted face.
I follow him out of the room, and he leads me to an entirely different staircase than the one he’s carried me up multiple times. This time, I get to go on my own two feet, anyway.
We make our way down the hallway, and he pushes an ornate door open. The room that he reveals is like lodging for a princess. The room that I’ve been in is nice enough, but this is something extravagant. Something extraordinary.
The four-poster bed is carved with vines and butterflies on it, a beautiful, deep purple chaise in the corner.
I can imagine feeling like royalty in here. Which is interesting, because I’ve never really felt like royalty before. I can’t even say it’s been a goal.
“This was my grandmother’s custom suite. She had a taste for the finer things. And my grandfather lived to accommodate.”
“Well, that sounds nice.”
“Elements of it were, I’m sure. My grandfather was a difficult man.”
“I’ve yet to meet a man that isn’t difficult.” I smile at him. Maybe he’ll think I’m flirting. Maybe I am.
He walks ahead, gesturing toward a closed door. “This is where the closet is. It is more of a showroom.”
He pushes it open, and I gasp. It is doing a disservice to call it a closet; that is true. The place is incredible. Clothing on mannequins, like a grand showroom, some pieces hung facing out in the closet.
They’re stunning, each and every one made of quality, luxury fabrics.
There are so many pieces that are clearly couture, with little details done by hand, and innovative design.
I wish I could wear every single thing in here.
I want to design a collection based on it; I want to be the collection.
My eyes fill with tears, which feels like the most ridiculous thing in the world.
Why am I crying? Why I am getting emotional about this, I can’t fathom.
But I am. It’s like walking into a museum.
With a private exhibition for one. An exhibition the whole world doesn’t even know about.
“Why did you keep this?”
“My grandfather is the one who did. My grandmother died very shortly after my mother. The stress of it all killed her. My grandfather lost everything because of my father. Absolutely everything. This was his tribute to her. Her beloved wardrobe. And I’ve certainly never had the desire to remove it. ”
“What’s the story behind it?”
“I’m not sure,” he says.
I step deeper into the closet. I touch one of the exquisite coats, made from a very luxe wool.
There’s a small fabric label sewn into what feels like a mulberry silk liner.
“Estrada. Oh. Oh God. These are bespoke Estrada pieces?” I can tell that the entire thing is done by one designer.
It’s extremely cohesive. Different collections, certainly, different seasons.
But one hand created it. I’m clear on that.
“Is that significant?”
“Liliana Estrada started to reach the peak of her popularity in the 1960s. These look like they’re from the ’60s.”
“Yes. That’s when my grandmother would’ve been very young.”
“Well, it’s lovely. A custom Liliana Estrada wardrobe is… This really is an art collection.”
“They are meant to be worn,” he points out.
“Why did she have them all here?”
“I believe this is simply where my grandfather moved them. He became very reclusive. He spent much of his time here. And I spent some time here as well. After I left.”
“And then your grandfather got you into the mercenary business?”
He inclined his head. “Yes. And I will admit to you there were more blurry lines back then. It wasn’t crime for the sake of it, but still not the most palatable of career choices.”
“You alluded to this, but your men, are they from your father’s family?”
“Some. Though others are from different crime families, and they wanted out. That is what I thought Renzo wanted. But he’s taken my sister.”
“It’s one of your men that took your sister?”