Page 53 of Save You
I frown at her like she must have forgotten to take her medication that morning. There is not a chance in hell I am undressing for this old-fashioned fictional character from a nineteenth-century novel. My refusal to move seems to turn her cheery disposition a little sour, and her smile soon drops altogether.
“Mr Lawence has instructed me to look after you like one of my own, so I expect you tobehavelike one of my own.”
“Do you have children, Pru?” I ask, folding my arms in frustration over her attempts to bully me.
“I have two sons and a daughter, all of them grown and respectful members of Mayfield. In fact, my Faye is already a wife to one of the elite members of the council. You are to be married to the next president, so you may need some guidance over how it all works, which I am more than willing to give you.”
Her wide, toothy smile remains fixed as she walks toward me, her hand still stretching out before her, waiting for my clothes. My patience is now at rock bottom, so I stand up to my full height, thanking my lucky stars that I am a few inches taller, and return the sickly-sweet smile.
“Pru, I am eighteen, an adult, and to be the wife of the president. I have been bathing myself since the age of seven. I do not need you or anyone else to show me how to clean myself. Any lessons I do or do not need will come from Mr Lawrence, not the hired help!” I look at her with my most threatening don’t-fuck-with-me gaze, while simultaneously cringing over the fact that I just referred to her as the ‘hired help’. “Do we understand one another,Pru?”
If this were a cartoon, the poor woman would have steam billowing out of her bright red ears, but it does the trick. After a moment’s standoff, she steps away, dropping her head down to the floor before muttering, “Of course, Miss Steele.” I bet she’s going to spit in my food at dinner time, but at least she appears to be leaving me alone to have my own bath.
As she opens the door, I see Leo standing on guard outside with a strange smirk on his face, having apparently heard our little exchange. I can’t help smiling when her back is turned, and inwardly high-five myself for being able to stand up to at least one of them, even if she was only following Oliver’s orders.Little wins, Beth, little wins!
That evening, at dinner, Pru silently serves our food, obviously avoiding my eye contact and hurrying around the dinner table so she can get out of the room as soon as is humanly possible. It’s uncomfortable and I almost feel sorry for her, as well as a pressing urge to apologize for being such a bitch. However, this would only lead to Oliver questioning me, thus risking his wrath, which is something neither of us deserves to witness.
“Well, I wonder what on earth is wrong with Pru?” Oliver says out loud, snapping me out of my guilt-ridden thoughts. He’s wearing one of his smug smirks, clearly already in the loop as to why his housekeeper is out of sorts this evening.
Slurping on his deep red wine, which leaves a pattern of spider’s legs down the sides of the glass, he stares intensely at me from the head of the table. I have nothing to say, so smile tightly while bracing myself for some form of punishment over the whole, awkward situation.
“A little bird told me you told her off. Now said little bird is very cross with you, my darling. Not that she would dare show it in front of me. I have to say, Beth, I’m impressed.”
“You are?” I stare at him dumbfounded, now completely at a loss as to how he wants me to act. “I thought I was supposed to be submissive; to do everything that I am told.” I frown and clutch at my temples, rubbing them over and over with a painful feeling of complete confusion. “Oliver…I don’t know…”
He takes one of my hands and holds it inside of his before resting them both on top of the table, which only prompts me to look into his dark eyes again.
“You are to be submissive to me, Beth, no one else!” His smile is softer than usual, almost like he wants to earn my trust, “Apart from your grandfather, maybe. He is not someone to take a woman speaking back to him.” I stare at him, still lost, but unable to have this baffling argument with him. He simply winks before picking up his knife and fork to continue eating. “Eat!”
The following day, a small and robust team of women arrive to fit me for my ostentatious wedding dress. When the lead seamstress holds it out before me, I eye it with horror, wondering who the hell thought up such a thing and who told them it would be a good idea to actually make it. It looks like something a doily angel threw up at a Christmas party, mixed in with some toilet tissue frills and over-the-top bows. As the team of women beams up at me, waiting for me to say how beautiful it is, all I can manage is a half-hearted smile and a sort of shrug.
For the next thirty minutes or so, I play an excellent role of a statue as they pin, tuck, and poof the ghastly fabric that covers me from head to toe. The hairstylist talks about curling my hair and holding it up with white, silk flowers, together with pearls and netting, which is basically a nice way of saying they are trying to squeeze on every material known to man onto my small frame, all at once. I try not to grimace when they attempt to sell it to me but can’t hide my eye roll when I’m shown what the bridesmaids will be wearing. It’s so cliché eighties, I can barely hold my laughter in, and in peach no less!
“My bride-to be-is not happy!”
The whole room falls silent at the sound of Oliver’s voice, and their faces morph into a mixture of fear, awe, and lust. After all, Oliver Lawrence is a handsome man, and has a reputation for being quite the catch amongst the women of Mayfield. They must hate me. If only they knew how much I would give to trade places with any of them.
“Angela, darling, why don’t you tell the ladies, here,” he begins as he walks purposefully toward me, “what you would really like to wear, including your bridesmaids.”
“I don’t even know who my bridesmaids are,” I reply as confidently as I can, trying to defiantly hold his gaze.
We stay in this stance for a few minutes and the rest of the room seem to collectively hold their breaths, all waiting for one of us to break the uncomfortable silence and talk. Eventually, the corner of his mouth flickers up, as though a wicked idea has just passed through his head.
“Leave!” he orders all of them in a steady and calm tone of voice, one that has every one of them shuffling for the door, until I am eventually left alone with him and his dark, lusty thoughts.
I silently berate myself for trying to maintain some level of power with him, a stupid thought seeing as he more than knows he holds everything when it comes to me. As the last person leaves, the door clicks closed, and he momentarily looks to the side before returning his gaze to me. His hand reaches for mine, which then pulls at my arm to help me down from the small pedestal which I’m currently standing on.
As soon as I’m level with him, I’m spun around so that my back is to his chest. He begins to unzip the monstrous dress that I’m wearing, soon pushing it down into a mountain of tulle and satin around my feet. My skin scatters with goose bumps as the cool air hits my naked skin. I take in a long breath as I stand before him in nothing but a pair of full briefs, still with a small pad inside of the gusset, and a pair of white stilettos. He begins to turn me back to face him, so I instantly reach up to cross my arms around my breasts, desperate to cover them before he sees. Within seconds, he pulls them down again and stares unashamedly at them hanging loose and still engorged from pregnancy.
Oliver smirks to himself like I’m a toy he’s been waiting a long time to play with. His fingertips reach out and brush over my cold, hard nipples before looking back up to my eyes. Something in the way he’s looking at me tells me what he’s about to do won’t be pleasant.
“Oliver,” I whisper, “please, I’m still bleeding, please-”
His index finger shoots up over my lips to silence me, which given his stern gaze, I do.
“Don’t worry, Beth; you’re going to do something for me. I feel like I need to begin claiming you back as mine; to make you understand that you belong to me.”
I’m pulled along with him as he backs us up toward a large, uncomfortable, but flashy-looking couch that is sitting behind him. I watch him with terror as he unbuckles his belt, pulls down his trousers, and sits, all the while looking at me with his unflinching eyes, the ones that tell me not to argue.