Page 60 of Down Knot Out
“No, thank you,” Dominic says, polite but clipped.
We understand how this works and don’t have time to waste.
Inside the suite, silence stretches between us. Mirrors cover the walls, angled to flatter from all sides. A chaise lounge and a marble-topped console hold bottled water and a lacquered tray of pastel macarons. A garment rack waits, curated with elegant pieces of clothing in navy, charcoal, ivory, and emerald. No prints. No softness.
My stomach tightens into a sour knot around Emily’s comforting breakfast. Everything about this place is designed to prove your value with good tailoring.
I inspect the hanger, which holds a cashmere-lined, sharp-shouldered navy blazer and skirt set, and my fingers curl, tempted to reject it on principle.
Dominic watches me through the mirror. “You have to wear the armor they respect, or they’ll dismiss everything you say.”
“I hate that that’s true.” Still, I take the hanger.
His lips twitch. “It’s only for a few hours.”
A sales associate reappears with an outfit on a hanger. “This suit should coordinate with anything Ms. Richardson chooses, sir.”
Wordlessly, Dominic takes the charcoal jacket and crisp white shirt.
Pale gold lines the changing alcove, with a pedestal in the center meant for tailoring. I strip slowly, folding my comfortable clothes and setting them aside.
The skirt hugs my waist, and the blouse drapes perfectly. When I slide the blazer on, my shoulders square without thought. The mirror doesn’t lie. The woman reflected back reads power.
But I feel empty.
I emerge, and Dominic, half-buttoned into his own new suit, goes still.
“That’ll do,” he murmurs.
I swallow hard. “It’s armor.”
He finishes adjusting his cuffs, then steps beside me in the mirror. Together, we appear expensive.
“It’s good,” he says. “You should wear it out.”
I look at our reflections again. “You, too.”
The associate returns a moment later and, without needing to be told, asks, “Shall I have your previous garments packed for delivery or travel?”
“Pack them,” I answer before Dominic can respond. “We’ll wear these.”
“Of course.”
The payment is handled quietly. No plastic bags, just a sleek black garment box and a white envelope containing our receipt, discreetly slid into Dominic’s pocket.
I walk out of the store in my new outfit, each step louder than the last in a pair of heels that pinch my toes but add four inches to my height. The image may portray power, but I don’t feel it. This isn’t who I am or who I want to be. But it’s who Ineedto be, just for today.
Back in the car, Dominic drives us to our next destination, where we have our hair styled and my face is transformed by makeup.
When I stare at myself in the mirror, the person in the reflection doesn’t flinch. But it takes effort. I keep my breathing steady, square my shoulders,and narrow my sharply lined pink eyes, the weight of my coiffed hair dragging at my skull.
I look like my mother, but maybe that’s not a bad thing. If I’m going to face the man who raised and then discarded me, I’ll need to channel every ruthless tactic Vivian Sinclair ever taught me.
Dominic rejoins me, freshly shaved and with his glossy black hair woven into a complicated braid down the center of his head. My breath catches at his beauty, and it takes all my willpower not to smudge my lipstick by kissing him.
He catches my hand and brings it to his lips. “Ready?”
I smooth a hand over the front of my blazer. I may be a Sinclair by blood, but their rejection taught me to be stronger. And I’m walking into that office not to ask for anything, but to show them how far I’ve come despite them.
