Page 125 of His Pretty Little Duet

"He'd kill you?" I whisper as the other guards wander back inside the house, clearly annoyed, leaving HJ and his fixed gaze that delivers an undeniable answer to that question. "I see." I nod towards the retreating backs of the other men. "They don't like me very much."

He sighs, pity tumbling through his voice. "You do talk to your food more than you talk to them."

"Clay told me not to talk to them."

"I'll have words with them. Don't worry."

My hero."They don't treat me like they treat Aurora. They treat me like a ward. Like they are babysitting… So do you now. We used to joke."

He looks regretful. "Fawn. It's respect."

And it isn't his fault or theirs. I'm an eighteen-year-old unrequited daughter of a mob boss and the lover of his enemy.Bound in inadequacies and eighteen years of an orphan identity to boot. No idea what to do from one moment to the next or how this half of society lives.

Privilege is kind of boring…

So, I get it—they don't know how to treat me.

Just like I don't know how to behave.

Fawn

This isAurora's concept of happiness—clothes shopping with a bottomless account.

A spare room has been transformed into a pop-up boutique. I pull another pencil skirt off the rack, wondering how it varies from the previous one.

I peer down my body, at my Bambi print shirt—the one that made Clay smile—and the white flowy skirt that bares a lot of my legs, liking them far more than the piece in my hand?—

"That's a lovely choice," a voice says from behind me.

I smile stiffly, and hook the pencil skirt on the ‘maybe rack’ even though it’s ano.

They are all so same-same. Black. Red. Mauve. Dusty… everything.Dusty pink, blue, green. Why do we want to look dusty? Why is worn and tattered the new…new? The entire concept confuses my poverty-constructed brain.

But then… "It's better to stand out, than fit in," I mutter to myself, as my mother's entire philosophy in life tumbles into my mind while the simple, yet stunning garments around me guarantee I will do far more fitting in than standing out.

The middle-aged woman who is pretending to search for somethingImay like keeps glancing my way as though she has more words working their way around her tongue.

I pull out a cute white flowy shirt that might look elegant as a dress with a tan belt. If I get a size too large… I might like that. I present it to her, saying, "I quite like this... as a dress, though."

The woman shakes her head, and I frown, not surprised by her attitude. I kind of want to look the part so they'll respect me, so I go along with this. "That's a Valentino," she says. "It isn't supposed to be worn as a dress."

Right…

I keep looking. I've always liked op-shopping because there are trends and styles from every era. I enjoy mixing and matching and wondering what life the garment has already lived… It is one of the few things I remember doing with my mum.

She used to say we were different. I'm not sure I was anything really… an extension of her, maybe. Looking back on what I recall,shewasdifferent.Her opinions: wild. Her theories: conspiracies she probably never honestly believed. She just… wanted something to say. Even if she was absurd. At the very least, she was interesting.Enchanting.

Memorable,even.

She felt the same way about her appearance and mine. While other girls wore jeans and tee-shirts, I was dressed in flowing dresses, denim jackets, and cowboy boots. She hid in her boldness, in her bullshit.

"Be like the moon, Fawn. Light up the dark."

Then she put a bullet in her brain.

"I've been dressing Mrs Butcher since she was nine," the woman says, drawing me from my thoughts. She clutches at her red shawl as she approaches a rear rack of clothes. "And her style is flawless." She spins to face me with an expression of feignedpoliteness. She gazes at me like a project. A quiet cringe crosses her face before she recovers her retail smile. "Whydon't we try something new? Huh? You know, there is a certain image that Mr and Mrs Butcher uphold and—" She gives me another once over. "You're stunning, young lady, but maybe we could change your style a tad."

"Fawn,"—Aurora's voice sails through the room, although I can't seem to place her, the racks creating partitions in the vast space—"has her own style."

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