Page 68 of Broken Princess

She gestures to the shop assistant, who comes straight over. “I’ll take everything on the rail on the left and can you show me where your shoe displays are, please?” Taylor, according to her name badge, peers into the dressing room and her eyes widen at the number of clothes. I’m guessing she works on commission.

“Er-sure, follow me.”

I trail after them both, still not sure what I’m looking at because never in my life have I ever seen Aurora look like this. Skin-tight black jeans, leather belt with silver studs and the damn blue corset peeking out from under a white collared shirt.

She doesn’t simply look hot—she’s breathtaking. So tantalisingly beautiful I want to lick every inch of her visible skin. I’ve known for years that she was an attractive woman, but it wasn’t until I got to know her that she mesmerised me. In this moment, it’s like she’s transformed herself.

No, that’s not right. She hasn’t miraculously become someone else because she changed her clothes. She’s free to be her again. The smile I can see creeping across her face reminds me of the ball-buster whose team emptied the safe and Renwick’s auction house five years ago.

She’s magnificent.

I watch as she grabs a selection of shoes, asking for her size. It doesn’t take long for Taylor to return, and Aurora tries them all on. The last pair are black leather knee-high boots with laces all the way up the front. They have no heel and look like she could do some serious damage with the thick soles, chunky treads, and steel toed fronts.

“Yes, thank you.” Aurora nods, handing back the rest of them.

“Sorry, which ones?”

“I’ll wear these boots out with this outfit, and you can add the rest of the shoes to the total.”

“All of them?”

“Yes, all of them.” Aurora walks over to a rack of leather coats and finds a longish single breasted black leather coat, hooks it off the hanger and tries it on in front of the full-length mirror. “Oh, and this.”

I’m laughing out loud now because it’s obvious from Taylor’s gobsmacked expression that we’ve broken her.

“Of course, right this way, ma’am.”

“Oh, I’m not paying. He’s footing the bill.”

“Actually, It’s on Zo.” This little excursion won’t put the smallest dent in our bank account, but I’m glad as I pull out the black Amex, that we have the capabilities to look after Aurora, even if it’s in this small way. Taylor spends the next twenty minutes bagging everything up. Thank fuck we brought the truck.

Don’t get me wrong, I found the shopping entertaining. But after a not insignificant number of hours in a hair salon with Aurora, I’m considering running head-first through the plate-glass windows to relieve the tedium.

We had been heading home when she spotted this place and demanded I stop, jumping out and running in before I could stop her. By the time I parked and caught up with her, she was already in a chair with a stylist—wig tossed on the floor. She had grabbed me by the shirt collar and her exact words were, “If you make me wear this wig one more time, I’ll either make you eat it or shove it up your ass, depending on my mood.”

The only sensible response given her mood was, “Yes, Ma’am.”

So now here I sit, watching hair process apparently. It’s on a par with watching paint dry. I’m sure it will make sense soon, but right now it looks the same as when she came in, just covered in strips of tinfoil. The look is as effective a disguise as the wig she hates so much.

I’ve been texting with Enzo about the plan for tonight. We’re later than I’d expected to be back, so he’s chasing me for an ETA.

Fuck knows.

Zo:

That’s unhelpful.

Take it up with Aurora.

Next thing I know, he adds Aurora to our group chat. Interesting.

Zo:

Aurora, how much longer are you going to be?

Hummingbird:

Afternoon, Sleeping Beauty.

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