Page 17 of Control: XXX Vadim 1
Ican’t actually afford the hotel room by myself. Realistically, anyway. I can last about three days tops, and that’s if I completely decimate what little savings I have. I could always call my parents, but I’ve suffered enough of their pity to last a lifetime. Besides, I’d rather not deal with Daddy bribing me to come back home or hear my mother cry about “the state of my only little girl’s life” one more time.
So I approach the front desk, ready and willing to swallow the cost no matter the pain.
“I’m sorry,” the hostess informs me, frowning at her computer screen. “It looks like the room has already been paid in full for the week, complete with an open tab for room service.”
I frown. Could Vadim be planning to claim the suite for himself? What a dick. He might already be there right now, screwing some blond escort submissive enough to fit his preferences.
“You are listed as the room’s primary occupant,” the hostess adds, scouring her records. “Ms. Connors, correct? It looks like the change was just freshly made. About an hour ago. I could always refund the card on record—”
“No.” I turn on my heel and head for the elevator, squashing all doubt. “Thanks for your help.”
I reenter the suite to find my bags where I left them and everything else in place, though neatly arranged, the bed turned down by some over-eager housekeeper.
So this must be Vadim’s idea of the ultimate kiss-off. Leave me in an unfamiliar city. Pay off the incredibly expensive room he stuck me in. Leave without a trace.
And I thought Jim could be an asshole.
Dejected, I sink onto the bed and sob in earnest. I let out every ugly, choking, nasty cry and allow the tears to stream down my cheeks in earnest. Then I find the remote to a flat-screen TV hidden behind a pair of black curtains hanging across from the bed, turn to the music channels, and find the most upbeat pop imaginable. I play it as loud as I dare, shed my dress, and then hop into the bathroom and face myself in the mirror.
Years wasted in a loveless marriage can teach a girl a lot of things. Like that, no one—no gosh darn one—is worth losing your self-respect for. No one can make you feel any lower than you allow them to, and no one should ever rob you of your smile.
I smile now, displaying my teeth at the exhausted woman before me.
“You are confident,” I tell her. “You are bold, and vivacious, and sexy. And—” A new addition to my mantra, but ad-libbing is all part of the exploration of freedom. “You are going to march into that sex club and own the darn place! Vadim, who?”
I manage to work the shower properly and then crawl into bed, feeling fresh and renewed. This might be a setback, sure.
Or it could be the real start to my adventures in sexual freedom.
* * *
I wakeup and order from room service, half-convinced that the card on file will be declined, and Vadim Gorgoshev will have the last fucking laugh. But not even ten minutes later, my meal arrives steaming hot and I feel bold enough to write a generous tip on the napkin afterward with a message to charge to the account.
After changing into the blue dress from my shopping spree, I head down to the concierge and request assistance in finding a flight straight back to California, ASAP. Sure, I told Vadim I’d go to his little sex club and orgy myself silly. But that was just a boast made in the heat of the moment, right?
“I’ve found two flights, Miss,” the concierge says, drawing my attention. “Both don’t leave until tomorrow morning. Should I book one for you?”
“There isn’t one sooner? Tonight, at least?”
He shakes his head apologetically. “I’m afraid not. Though, if you’re looking to kill time, I’ve been informed that you are still authorized to use the town car should you require it.”
“Alright, I’ll take the earliest flight. Thanks anyway.” Frowning, I accept the booking information he gives me and then return to the room, feeling more trapped than free.
But then I spot it. It being a platinum, no-limit, fancy smanshy credit card that Vadim gave me for my dress. I could have sworn I’d returned it to him. Even thinking about using it now would be both illegal and reckless. Not to mention petty as hell.
Minutes later, I’m in the town car, directing William to the shopping district I’d scoped out yesterday. I find my favorite designer—whose clothing I couldn’t afford guilt-free, even while on my parent’s tap—and I march in, guns blazing.
I buy the sexiest dress I’ve ever seen in my entire life and shoes to match. And the purse. And the complementary faux fur stole and diamond-studded belt.
It’s the outfit heist of the century, and I’m fully resigned to have the card declined as the salesgirl goes to ring me up. It’s the thought that counts—one last screw you to the bastard who hurt me way more than I’d like to admit. Not just the whole“I used you to embarrass my brother and his family because I am a dick”thing. Maybe my irritation has less to do with that and more to do with…
The whole “I don’t want to fuck you, or get sucked off by you, and by the way, you’re not even my type”thing.
Hurt pride is a vengeful, nasty animal—one best soothed with lots of retail therapy.
“I’m sorry,” I blurt as the saleswoman returns, brandishing the card. “My husband probably cut me off. It’s for the best—”
“Having cold feet?” she wonders, glancing at my spoils of war. “It went through, but if you like, I can cancel the charges?”
