Total pages in book: 24
Estimated words: 22700 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 114(@200wpm)___ 91(@250wpm)___ 76(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 22700 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 114(@200wpm)___ 91(@250wpm)___ 76(@300wpm)
And I’m just sitting here like a statue, all day, my heart aching. Waiting for something to happen. Anything that will let me know he’s still thinking about me.
“Just don’t vanish on me again,” I told him.
“I won’t,” he said.
Maybe I’m placing too much of the blame on him. Maybe his car broke down or he had a medical emergency. Not knowing makes things so much more painful.
Then, he arrives.
Arthur. The ominous shadow that looms over every second of my life when I’m not with Rhett. My father’s hand-picked fiancé. The man whose eyes make my skin crawl, whose sleazy smile sends a chill through my body every time I see it.
I watch as his car pulls up and his driver opens the door for him. He steps out like he owns even the air around him and brushes his hand across his jacket, disgusted by a possible spot of lint or dust.
He looks up at my window and sees me. I go tense, his eyes narrow, and his lips twist up at the sides. He lowers his chin, as if I don’t deserve an actual nod or a wave, then heads inside. I move quickly to the dresser and pull on a bulky sweater that I can use to hide my body from him if he comes to my room. Which he does, of course.
He knocks but doesn’t wait for a response before entering. Why would he? He owns the house, after all–and by extension–me.
“Darling,” he says, stepping inside. Darling? Really? “You look wilted. Like a flower that needs watering.”
What a thing to say to a woman.
I don’t answer. I just pretend to clear my throat and lower my eyes.
He steps close to me. I smell something on him–maybe another woman’s perfume. His hand reaches out for mine, and when his fingers close around my wrist, I flinch. I can’t help it.
“You’re shaking, Cassandra. Have you eaten?” He glances over at the silver dome of my breakfast tray, sitting on the side-table. I pretend to scratch my neck and pull my hand away.
“I have,” I reply, lying through my teeth. Arthur’s jaw ticks, but he doesn’t push it. He sees right through me. It’s one of his most disconcerting qualities. He lets things slide, but later, when I’m least expecting it, he lectures me on what he’ll expect from me once we’re married. What it means to be his wife and carry the family name with “grace” and “discipline.” My heart turns to ice just thinking of it.
That lecture comes later in the evening after my father shows up for dinner. He fawns all over Arthur, his eyes beaming like he’s so proud of their arrangement–the future he’s bartered on my behalf. A deal I dread.
“Look at her.” He smiles, spreading caviar on toast. “She’ll be a princess here, Arthur. She already is!”
He’s tipsy off all the champagne they’ve been drinking. It’s beyond embarrassing. Here they are, talking about me like I’m some Disney princess, when really, I feel like the final-girl in a thriller-horror movie.
I smile and nod, however, like a good girl should, until the dishes are cleared. Arthur twirls his glass and leans in. “By the way, you’ll be accompanying me to the gala I’m hosting at my club next weekend.” Arthur owns a golf club, because of course he does. “A designer will be here in three days to fit you for your dress.”
He winks, as though having a dress handmade for me is suddenly going to make me feel like the luckiest woman in the world. I guess Arthur just can’t fathom the fact that women don’t want to be bought.
I open my mouth to reply, but he’s already talking to my dad again. They start lighting up cigars and talking business, and I politely excuse myself upstairs. The second I’m back in my room, I strip out of the uncomfortable dress he had me wearing and the brand-new heels that have been killing my feet. I trade them for a pair of athletic shorts and a soft T-shirt I’ve worn countless times. Then I slip my hand under my mattress where I’ve hidden the romance novel I’m currently reading.
I cradle it like a tender little secret. Because it is a secret. It’s my secret. My only outlet into the psyche of a man, until Rhett came along.
I sink into bed and curl up under the covers. My heart still stings from not hearing from him all day. My stomach feels hollow but not because I haven’t eaten all day. The second I open the book and the smell of the paper enters my nostrils, something inside me comes alive.
The scene I reached last time was a spicy scene near the climax of the book, where the heroine, who is desperate for the hero’s touch, finally admits to him that she’s ready. That she’s desperate for him. I knew I had to stop here or I wouldn’t be able to get to sleep, but as I delve in, suddenly the heroine is no longer who I am picturing in my mind.