Page 40 of Princess of Pride
Tinsley, from my boarding school, told me I reminded her of this young famous actress who is all chest and no hips. Her body is insanely fit, even though her boobs are the first thing you notice about her. I took the compliment, but I disagreed. I haven’t actively worked out since my riding days, and I stopped the sport at fifteen when I was sent away.
I call the front desk.
They greet me by my name.
“Do you have a gift shop with clothing?”
“Did the personal shopper not come through for you?”
“I need something faster.”
“She has clothes on hand in a variety of styles and sizes for situations like this.”
“She does?”
“Yes. I can send her to you with several to choose from if you give me your size and style.”
Very accommodating. It’s the Spencer name. I’d rather travel without it. “Yes, please. Send her here with trendy, romantic styles that have a conservative neckline. Size extra small or zero that accommodates a DD cup and a five-five height. Shoe size seven,” I add, “I’ll need undergarments, a purse, suitcase, cosmetics, and hair products too.”
“Yes, Mrs. Ashford. I’ll pass this information to Raveena. She’ll be there shortly.”
“Ashford?” I say with question. “It’s Spencer.” I checked in under Spencer.
“Sorry. It says here the room has been transferred to a Mr. and Mrs. Lachlan Ashford.”
The piece of— “Is the card on file still Emery Spencer?” My bank account has always been under my name. I checked in to the app on my phone with my usual email and password, but I didn’t see if anything else had changed under my profile.
“The card shows Emery Ashford.”
Bastard! It’s my private account.Mine. Emery Spencer. He should have asked my permission first. I never agreed to this.
Somehow, I keep my voice calm. “Thank you.”
I end the call and glare at the hallway where Lachlan disappeared, wishing he’d reappear just so I could throw my phone at his head.
I need something to distract me from this rage—an inferno I’ve never felt before, not even toward my domineering dad.
A shower would help. Plus, it will clean off the motorcycle grime before I try on the new clothes. Being raised by my general of a mother, I know I can shower quickly before Raveena arrives.
It takes me five minutes to pile my hair up and rinse my body. I’m out and in another clean robe before the knock sounds on the door.
I hurry to open it but hesitate at the thought of my smug husband. Do I want to see him right now? No. I want my clothes so I can escape.
A quick glance through the peep hole shows a dark-haired woman and a young man holding garment bags. Not Lachlan.
I open the door and welcome them inside.
Thirty minutes later, I have seven outfits, clean underwear, makeup, hair products, accessories, a Chanel bag, and a Louis Vuitton suitcase.
“You are an impressive shopper,” Raveena says. “And a fast one at that.”
“I’m in a hurry, so…” I pay and tip her and her assistant, Benoît. They were incredibly helpful and friendlier than I imagined. In my experience with my mother, personal shoppers can be kiss-ass and fake.
Before they leave, I ask, “Know of any places I could escape to if I wanted to get away in private?”
Raveena scratches her chin in thought, but Benoît’sfeatures spread wide as if he knows of a place.
“Benoît?”
