Page 11 of To Hell

I lift the black dress and strut over to the doors. I dangle the outfit before me, trying to catch myself in the dark glass frames and see what I would look like in a dress as fancy as this one.

The doors open, and I jump back, my heart leaping to my mouth. I’m not sure what I did to open it, but soon enough, my heart plops back into my chest, leaving my mouth agape.

Shoes, bags, and jewelry.

For me?

It can’t be.

I shake my head, refusing to go closer to them.

They are too precious. Too pristine for someone like me. I will ruin them if I get into them. And even this dress. I toss the dress away like it’s hot metal.

But this… I adjust the skimpy fabric of my costume from the Bratva’s club. I deserve this. I button up his black dress shirt, then tie it.

Breakfast I will have, as he has commanded, but I will not let myself get swayed and put on things I do not deserve.

I rumple the note in my grip, and my mind conjures that same familiarity I had sensed when looking into his eyes as the handwriting on the note lingers in my mind.

It looks familiar. Like I. once knew it. But somehow, it’s missing something.

I step out of my room and gingerly strut down the dark hallway, careful not to miss my step as my eyes still have to adjust to the stark darkness.

As I approach the staircase, I catch a glimmer of whiskey-gold light on its rail, and then the entire ground floor pops dimly into view.

I search with my eyes but do not see anything, so I step down, placing my bare feet on the cold floor, and then strutting towards the kitchen with my hands planted by my sides.

I stop by the entrance of the breakfast room, also black, with white furnishing to enhance the stark contrast, except for the gold dishes and cutlery.

And there he is, sitting majestically by the table, dressed in his black regalia of dress shirt and pants, with black-stoned cufflinks, his eyes drilling holes into me.

The sun is peeking through the open window behind him.

“Good morning,” I mumble and drop my head to my bare feet. I clear my throat, my mouth watering at the sight of food spread out for me. It’s like a buffet.

“Good morning,” that iciness in his voice cuts like glacial boomerangs in my head, “What are you wearing?”

He has yet to show any signs of violence, and I want to keep it that way.

But he must be pissed that I disobeyed him and refused to wear the clothes he bought me.

He stands, the sound of the chair creaking as he pushes out of it and looms in my direction. I fight the urge to shrink visibly as he stops before me.

“Why are you not wearing any of the clothes I got you?” He doesn’t wait for my answer. Instead, his hand wraps around my wrist. He leads me hastily back up the stairs, graciously skating through the dark hallway and stepping into my room.

He lets go of my wrists, and I don’t miss the way he flexes his hand like I might have an infection. Or the way he scrunches his nose like I irritate him.

Is that why he wants me all dressed up? He wants me to look presentable to him.

“Why, Zoe?” He gallantly struts over to the still-open wardrobe and picks up the black dress I left on the pile of other clothes. " Do you like this one?”

I nod but keep my head down.

“Wear it,” he says, stretching the dress towards me. I shake my head, refusing to collect it from him.

He observes me for a while, then swallows loudly. He huffs, and I see I might be provoking him. But the last thing I want is to upset him.

“They are all beautiful, Zoe, and quite expensive,” he breathes. “But none of them compares to your beauty or your worth.” He closes the inch of space between us. “Take it.”

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