Series: Webs We Weave Series by Krista Ritchie
Total pages in book: 147
Estimated words: 145038 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 725(@200wpm)___ 580(@250wpm)___ 483(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 145038 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 725(@200wpm)___ 580(@250wpm)___ 483(@300wpm)
Ugghhh, maybe we should’ve known. He had zero important role for tonight, other than dropping me and Hailey off at the estate. How long has he even been concocting this side plan? For weeks? Months?
Trevor completely cold-shoulders me, and I have to give him props for that. He’s not trying to make me break character.
And he was able to get an invite all on his own. I bet Rocky would be proud if he weren’t so on edge. Trevor’s violin skills aren’t fabricated either.
Everett and Addison put him in lessons since he was four. Anything that allowed him to tinker and toil.
I need to tell Rocky—
“Excuse me, Miss Smith.” Niall, the family’s redheaded butler, sidesteps in front of me and blocks my view of the quartet. “Mrs. Waterford is expecting you. I’m to bring you to her.”
* * *
—
“Claudia.” I air-kiss her cheeks upon meeting her in a humongous dressing room filled with couches, chairs, and an unlit fireplace. Candles burn on the mantel. Evening gowns are hung on several racks, and a podium faces an ornate floor-length mirror.
With his hands dutifully behind his back, a male tailor waits to be called upon.
I ignore him. “It’s so, so good to see you tonight.” I take her hands before she has any chance to greet me. “Your house is beautiful, and I’m just so grateful we have such a divine place to enjoy Easter weekend.” I’m usually over-the-top around her, but tonight I’ll have to up the eccentricities to another level.
Claudia pulls her hands away like I have diseased them. She assesses me coldly. “I see you’ve helped yourself to the bar already.”
I let out an ungraceful snort. “Hardly. But there’s plenty of time to imbibe later.”
She puts a hand to her throat, near a strand of emeralds. Her blonde hair is twisted in an updo, and she’s ready for tonight’s dinner, wearing a slimming green cowl-neck dress. “Why don’t you stand up there?” She flicks her fingers to the round platform. “Let’s get you in something a little more appropriate.”
In truth, Claudia is right.
My pale pink satin dress is far from appropriate for an elegant ten-course dinner. It’s not that it’s off-the-rack (though I’m sure she’s shuddering at this fact, too), but the neckline plunges to my navel and exposes the sides of my breasts. Very VMAs red carpet and far from the Oscars. If this were a job where I was to get into her good graces instead of light them on fire, I would’ve ordered a custom Atelier Versace dress and matching crystal earrings.
“You don’t like what I bought?” I frown deeply and glance down at the garment, which hangs perfectly on my body.
Her smile is as fake as my name. “You must wear one of my pieces. It’ll look darling on you. I won’t take no for an answer.” Of course you won’t.
I pout. “Really? I liked this one. The lady at JCPenney said it was gorgeous on me.”
She sucks in air through her nose. “I insist, Phoebe.”
Blowing out a dramatic breath, I touch my dress one last time as if I’m mourning the fabric. “Fine, I’ll try another option, but I can’t promise I’ll like it more.”
A polite knock on the door shifts her attention. “Come in. Be quick.”
“Ma’am.” Everett slips inside, wearing a tux. “Just a word with your tailor.”
“Of course, Maxwell,” Claudia says and appraises me, ignoring Everett Tinrock (aka Maxwell Abbot) as he chats under his breath to him. Then he places a photo of the Koning family on the mantel next to lit candlesticks.
Seconds later, he’s gone.
Claudia suspects nothing.
Why would she? She has a bajillion staff roaming her property.
She flicks a finger at the tailor, pointing at him like he’s a machine she’s operating. He lifts a shimmery silver dress.
I curl my nose. “I don’t want to look like a disco ball.”
Her eyes flame. “My son would prefer you look like a disco ball over a…” She bites her tongue before the insult escapes.
I challenge her gaze. “Over a what?” I confront. I’m too confident to bend to her will. Too obnoxious to suffer through. Too difficult to mold. I am her worst fucking nightmare for her son.
“A whore,” she says, her graces lowering. “You look like a whore, Phoebe.”
I don’t balk. I just smile. “They’re called breasts, Claudia. It’s okay to flaunt them.”
“Not in my house. You will change.”
Claudia waves down the tailor once more. He cycles through a rack of designer gowns. She shakes her head at each one—until he halts on a royal-blue gown with a sequined bust. Modest and likely pulled from some Disney castle. Despite it being lovely, it’s not something I’d choose for myself.
“That one.” Claudia gestures the tailor forward. He’s younger than I’d expect. Late twenties, maybe, but I evade his eyes as he brings over the blue gown. “Try it on.”