Page 80 of Unwillingly His

“You are acting like a teenager throwing a temper tantrum,” Hamilton said as I crossed into the bedroom that I shared with Manwarring.

At that, I stopped, turned around, looked him dead in the eye, and said something that I didn’t think I had ever said to anyone before in my life.

“Go fuck yourself.” I slammed the door in his face, locking it immediately.

If he wanted a teenage tantrum, then I would happily oblige.

I grabbed my phone, pulled up Spotify, found something called a ‘Feminine Rage” playlist, and turned up my phone’s volume as high as it could go. Immediately, a screaming guitar followed by the words ‘I don’t give a damn about my reputation’ began blaring from my phone, and it was just perfect.

On the side table, under some papers, was a pair of large black scissors, and they would be perfect for what I had in mind. I went to my closet and cut through all of the bullshit that old Stella had worn because it was what was expected of her.

It was pretty and feminine and delicate and gave men like Lucian Manwarring the impression that they had a right to bully, intimidate, or even touch me without my permission. Everything that reminded me of the delicate flower that I was supposed to be got shredded and then tossed out of the window.

Several Chanel and Dior dresses floated down to the streets below in shreds. One right after the other. There were visual symphonies of pale pinks, delicate greens, and baby blues, and then an absolutely unbelievable number of white, off-white, and ivory clothes.

It was like everything I owned was already washed out.

Like my wardrobe had worked so hard to be pretty and delicate but unobtrusive in any environment. I was never meant to stand out but to blend into pale watercolor paintings.

Half of my clothes matched the goddamn walls.

Hamilton was banging on the door, and I couldn’t be bothered. I refused to stop my tirade of self-discovery and destruction for a butler with too much self-importance.

It was as if somehow licking Lucian Manwarring’s shoes made him important enough to order me around. Well, fuck him. I had licked far more interesting parts of the man, but I didn’t let that influence how I treated people.

Soon, in a moment of silence between songs, I could hear the people outside yelling or screaming, trying to get the pieces of fabric that I had thrown out the window.

I slashed through a few Birkin bags and threw them out the window when I heard a woman scream.

I peeked out and saw her grabbing the bag, clutching the torn leather. She was actually quite pretty in a pale pink dress. However, unlike mine, hers was not designer, and it was not made to fit her body.

“Hold on,” I yelled down and went back to the wardrobe.

I grabbed a pale pink Kelly bag in ostrich leather and a Birkin that was in pale green alligator leather. My mother had simply loved the alligator leather and that pale green, saying that it would go with everything. But it went with absolutely nothing that I wanted to wear.

It was the epitome of the old Stella, but I recognized it was a piece of art. I would not be carrying this pretentious bag, but maybe the woman downstairs could get joy from it. Or sell it and buy a new wardrobe. I didn’t care.

“Hey, up here,” I called down to the girl and tossed both of the bags to her. Then I went back on my rampage. As soon as I had destroyed every piece of clothing that was some muted color, I also took care of every bag and even several pairs of shoes in pale pink and pastel blues, leaving only the blacks, browns, and a few vivid colors I genuinely loved.

My closet was practically empty.

In a closet the size of a studio apartment, which had been absolutely stuffed with bags, shoes, and clothes, what was left, what I considered acceptable, fit in one foot of hanger space.

I had four pairs of shoes left and only a single bag—an Alexander McQueen hobo bag that I had gotten as a door prize at someone’s party some years ago. I loved the structure and the brass knuckles at the top with jeweled skulls.

This was the vibe of the new Stella.

The clothes were an issue, but one that I could wait out if I had to. Or I could call Charlotte and have her get me in touch with her goth cellist friend, who might like to take another former rich girl turned punk rock shopping.

Once I was finished with the clothing, I turned to the rest of the room. Technically, this room wasn’t mine. I was expecting to stay with Lucian.

The question was, how much damage could I do before he kicked me out and demanded I sleep in a different room?

Hopefully, a lot.

I slashed the bed sheets, cutting through the expensive satin and the Egyptian cotton of the duvet, and even throwing around the pillows until they burst and feathers filled the entire room.

The matching antique Tiffany lamps, with their broken bulbs and shades, were tossed aside. I was even about to turn on his wardrobe when a loud thud came from the door.

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