Page 50 of The Favorite Girl

“Well, we only have one 2005 model and she’s in pristine condition.” Mrs. Ivory clapped happily. “Demi, open the folder to page five,” she added.

My fingers felt numb as I turned the page and begged myself to not start hysterically crying. Page five had an image of one of the girls—Bradley’s sister.

My heart broke as I glanced at him. His eyes were fastened on the image of his sister standing on a platform wearing nothing but a beige bra and matching panties.

Shoving the folder toward Dr. Davenport, I slid my hand into Bradley’s shaking hand under the table.

Gripping it tightly, he squeezed my hand back.

“She’s definitely a favorite girl,” Dr. Ivory quipped. “Her bones are flawless. No signs of deterioration. Completely submissive after intensive white-therapy, and as you can see here,” he pointed to another page in a separate binder, “she’s a confirmed virgin.”

Dr. Davenport let out a sound of excitement that left me disgusted, and Bradley dropped his head lower.

“Now, this is my wife’s expertise. You can select from the various hair styles shown on page thirty. We’ll secure it onto your item, and we have a one hundred percent guarantee that their hair will grow back in, which we will style to your liking, free of charge. She’ll be brand-new, just for you.”

“I can’t believe after five years on your waitlist… it’s finally my turn. I’ve been waiting for her. I can’t wait to…” He and Ian Ivory exchanged a nauseating look with a wicked laugh.

“Well, you do remember the wedding night must take place in the holy room. This is our way of coping with letting one of our beautiful birds fly free.” Ian cleared his throat.

“Of course. I’ve heard nothing but incredible things about your wedding ceremonies and… memorable wedding nights.” Dr. Davenport continued to flip through the pages.

Squinting, I could see one of the pages. Images of green eyes were lined up from light to dark.

“I think she’d look better with the forest-green shade, don’t you think?” Dr. Davenport looked at Mrs. Ivory, who was scribbling notes down excitedly in a pink leather journal.

“Absolutely! She’s got the perfect porcelain face and that shade will truly pop.” The rest of the conversation began to blur, and all I could hear were the hairstyles Becca happily explained, preferences on wedding gowns, and music choices.

“Now, my favorite part.” Dr. Ivory lifted a cream-colored binder that stood out against the white ones.

“Bridal lingerie.” He licked his index finger and began flipping through the pages. “Here. Mmm… this is my absolute favorite.” He shuddered and turned the binder toward Dr. Davenport.

“Oh, now that is simply delectable. Yes, I want my product in that.”

“Now, now, Mason. Don’t forget once she’s designed for you, she’s no longer your product but rather your beautiful blushing bride.”

“What do you think, Bradley?” Dr. Ivory asked. “Bradley?” This time, anger laced his tone.

“Yes, sir?” Bradley looked at him with defeated eyes.

“Do you think product number five will look good in this for the wedding night?” He sneered, and I swore it took every ounce of willpower not to jump across the table and gauge his fucking green eyes out. “Look at it, Bradley. Look at the outfit and tell us exactly your thoughts.” Dr. Ivory knew what he was doing. He was torturing that innocent young woman’s brother.

The binder slid over toward us, and I looked at the image.

A black lace outfit, combined with a dog collar-looking choker and leash was on the page, and the page beside it contained a white lace outfit with the same dog collar and leash. Suddenly it all started to piece together. The ‘white-therapy’ had to be some distorted way to make these women submissive? But how?

This wasn’t some kind of rehabilitation; this was molding women to be subservient wives for these disturbed men.

“Bradley, answer me!” Dr. Ivory roared and I flung back into my seat.

“It’s a great selection, sir.” Bradley sounded like he was obstructing on his own voice.

“You’ll have a front row seat to the holy room celebration,” Dr. Ivory added before laughing and slapping Dr. Davenport’s back.

I looked over at Conrad, who was sitting there like a statue, completely unphased by what was happening. How could he allow this to happen? He didn’t live here full-time, but this was his home he flocked to for holidays and summer breaks from medical school. Granted, he’d been here for as long as I had. Was he really in school?

“Okay, everyone, we have a wedding to prepare for. Tomorrow will be here before we know it.”

“Tomorrow?” I spat out loudly.

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