Page 15 of Bianchi

Without a word, he turns and stalks out of the room. The man who interrupted us waves his arm to someone I can’t see in the corridor, calling, “This way, ladies.”

Fuck. My opportunity to find a way out of here has gone.

Two women enter the room. My brows raise at their short bubblegum pink dresses and overdone hair and makeup. They kind of remind me of the sisters from Hocus Pocus and if they aren’t twins, they sure could pass for them. Everything about them, except for their hair color, is the same.

“Thanks, Leo, baby,” the blonde purrs. She holds his stare before dragging her hand down his chest and resting it on his belt buckle. I’m not sure why, but I feel a sense of victory when he picks it up and drops it by her side. She shrugs his rejection off and flounces into the room behind the brunette.

Like two slender giant vultures, they start circling me, pulling at my hair and gripping my face too harshly. Their fake nails dig into my skin. With Leo at their back, they don’t try to hide their sneers of disgust.

“What do you think, Francesca?” the blonde asks.

Francesca grabs a handful of my hair and yanks my head back. I bite down on my tongue to keep from crying out. Show no weakness, Aurora.

“This one’s going to need a lot of work. How long do we have, Leo?”

In the small gap between them, I can see Leo still standing in the doorway. He flicks his wrist and grunts, “Forty-five minutes.”

Francesca tsks, before gripping my arm tightly, dragging me to a small table by one of the windows, and pushing me into a chair. They get to work, muttering things between themselves in Italian and then giggling. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out they’re talking about me. Now, more than ever, I wish I’d not rebelled so hard against my father and taken the Italian lessons my mom wanted me to. What I wouldn’t give to wipe the laughter from their faces.

Blondie yanks a strand of my hair, and I get jabbed in the eye with the liner Francesca just so happens to have positioned by my eyeball. I rear back, my hand instinctively going to my eye as it waters and runs down my cheek.

“Come on, Martina, you’ve got to be more careful than that,” Francesca admonishes. If it wasn’t for the smirk she can’t hide, I’d think she was being sincere.

A gentle knock sounds at the door, and I breathe a sigh of relief for the reprieve it will give me. Francesca and Martina share a look before my hand is yanked away from my eye and Francesca dabs at it with a ball of cotton, her attention fixed on the door. It creaks open, and a mousy blonde steps through, her head bent as she struggles in with a box that looks like it weighs more than her.

Francesca throws the cotton ball onto the table and rolls her eyes. Her top lip curls when she turns to face me. Gripping my chin, she lifts it and goes back to applying the makeup. “What do you want?”

I grind my teeth and blow out a breath. This is not my fight. All I need to do is keep my mouth shut, let them do their damage and then maybe, just maybe, I can figure out a way out of here.

“I’m so sorry to interrupt. Mr. Bianchi asked me to bring this in. It’s just arrived.”

Martina tugs at my hair so hard I’m surprised she doesn’t break my neck. With my gaze fixed on the ceiling, I dig my fingers into the wooden armrests and slowly exhale. Her tone is curt and dismissive. “Okay, well, leave it on the couch and get lost.”

It’s one thing to talk to me like this when I have no place in this world, but she’s just doing her job and they’re just being plain rude. “You don’t have to be such bitches to every person you come into contact with.”

Quiet falls over the room, the gentle ticking of a clock the only sound. It feels like an eternity before they choose to ignore my outburst and continue with their conversation. The woman who bought my dress scurries from the room, quietly closing the door behind her. Rapid-fire Italian flies over my head as I get yanked and prodded until they are satisfied with their work.

He’s dressed me up like a fucking sex doll. For what reason—other than to embarrass me—I’m not entirely sure. I would have thought he’d want me to look semi-decent, especially if it’s to be believed that I’m with him.

I feel like… I don’t even know. I’m speechless. The white dress is a size too small and barely covers my ass. If there’s even a chance of a gentle breeze, I can guarantee that whoever is looking is going to get more than they signed up for.

Martina and Francesca sure had fun making me look like a clown. The makeup is a layer too thick and my hair has been backcombed, making me look like I’ve been well and truly serviced. If the giggling and nudging were any indication, they wanted me to be an embarrassment for Romeo.

Well, I can’t do anything about the dress, but I can try and at least fix the rest. My eyes zero in on a box of tissues in the middle of the coffee table and I teeter my way over in heels that are way too high. Plucking out a handful, I use the TV screen as a mirror and swipe off a generous layer of foundation. The once-white tissue comes away orange. As happy as I can be, I throw the used ones on the table.

I just know that however I try to fix my hair, it’s going to hurt, but there’s no way I’m going out, having pictures taken and looking like I’ve been dragged through a hedge. Gently, I run my fingers through the tangled tresses, teasing at the clumps until my hair is back to a normal height.

It’s all in vain because I know that regardless of what I look like, Romeo will still go through with his plan.

My eyes land on the clock, watching as the hands move at an excruciatingly slow pace. I’ve been in this room, alone, for the last thirty minutes, waiting for Romeo. So far, I’ve come up with a million ideas on how to escape. I’ve put into action precisely one. On high alert, I tried the window, my stomach a mess as I pushed to open it. There was no time to process the disappointment when I found it locked, because a phone rang in the corner of the room and I nearly jumped out of my skin.

I haven’t dared to try to find another way out, especially because the girl from earlier came to answer the phone and left the door slightly ajar. It was stupid of me to try in the first place. What I need to do is bide my time and observe my surroundings. Running out blindly will only end one way.

My forehead rests against the cool glass pane as I stare out of the window I tried to escape through moments ago. It’s finally stopped raining and the green lawn that stretches for miles looks dewy and vibrant. I can’t see another building for miles and the reminder of where I am and who has me sends a frisson of awareness racing down my spine. If I do get out of here, where do I run to? How far will be far enough to get me to safety?

When the door opens, I force myself to keep still. I know it’s Romeo by the way the hairs stand on the back of my neck and goosebumps form a trail across my exposed skin. He doesn’t say a word, and I can’t see him in the reflection of the window, so I turn to face him, blowing out an exasperated breath.

Of course he looks good. I think it would be impossible for him not to. I’m yet to see him looking ruffled, and for some reason, that pisses me off. I want to push him closer to the edge, to see him lose control, because it’s not fair that he can be so unbothered by me when I notice every minute detail about him.

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