Page 93 of Mine

I watch as he crosses the room. At the door, he stops, turns back, and smiles before closing the door behind him.

Astor Stone, I think, you already are the death of me.

I lie there for a minute, allowing myself to delight in the moment. Then, grinning like a child, I surge out of the bed and jog to the closet.

I gasp.

An off-the-shoulder black ballgown with a velvet bodice and a tiered ruffled skirt stares back at me. It reminds me of a black Cinderella gown. On the floor next to it are a pair of black heels with red soles.

“Oh my God.” I drop to my knees and smell the shoes. Christian Louboutin.

My gaze shifts to a stunning ivory cashmere trench coat and wide-leg trousers. It reminds me of every classy rich woman I’ve ever seen sauntering down the streets of New York.

I’m staring at the pieces in awe when it hits me.

There’s no way Astor got these last night or early this morning. Which means he prepared for this trip days ago ... which means, he’s wanted me to accompany him since day one.

I smile, shaking my head. Until Astor is able to communicate his emotions like a real grown-up, his actions speak volumes. I’m okay with that, I decide. For right now, I’m okay with that.

Men take work, after all.

I find a note in the pocket of the white trousers. It reads: To wear on the plane.

In the other pocket is another note, this one wrapped in cherry-red strings of lingerie. It reads: To wear under everything.

I press the notes to my heart.

Astor picked these out, he did the shopping, he wrote the notes. Not Prishna, not Leo, not Cillian. Astor. Once my captor, now my (emotionally-challenged) Prince Charming. And me, his (slutty) Cinderella.

Could this actually work?

Could he and I work?

Elated, I move to the bathroom where rows of cosmetics and skin care are organized on the counter. All luxury brands.

Bracing myself on the sink, I stare into the mirror, my pulse flying.

A change is coming.

I can feel it.

My life is about to change.

This is it.

Fifty-Six

Sabine

We take Astor’s private jet to New York—naturally. But unlike last time, I’m not tied to the backseat. Now, I’m Astor’s guest—no, his date.

I feel like the leading lady in my own little movie as we board the plane together, Astor in his black tuxedo, me in couture cashmere. Just us. No Prishna, no Cillian, no Leo.

Our flight begins with an early dinner, an elaborate spread of meats, cheeses, fruits, vegetables, and, of course, lots of champagne. For dessert, we have sex, which is quickly becoming our favorite pastime. In a nutshell, it’s Pretty Woman, Cinderella, and Rochelle, Rochelle all rolled into one little (big) trip.

The sun is just beginning to set as we arrive in the city. I slept the entire flight (sex with Astor really knocks it out of me), while Astor caught up on work.

Nerves bubble in my stomach as our limousine rolls to a stop next to a red carpet flanked by strobing spotlights. Everything is sparkling—the lights, the camera flashes, the dresses, the rings. People are everywhere, including dozens of paparazzi.

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