Page 18 of VII (Seven) (War of Roses 2)

I rise obediently and stagger toward my pile of clothing. At first, I intend to grab whatever I can reach. He beats me to them, kicking a bag over so that its contents spill out for his inspection. One by one, he nudges the expensive fabrics with his bare toes.

“The black,” he grunts finally. “Wear that.”

I eye his selection and bite my lip: a thin dress with spaghetti straps.

“Why?”

“Why?” The smirk he’s wearing alarms me more than his raw anger. “You’re not with him anymore. So don’t fucking dress like it.”

“What do you mean?” Exasperation taints my tone. So many rules.Don’t do this. Don’t think that. Don’t wear those.

My entire being must remind him of Robert. But how much of my identity is my husband and how much is just me? I’m terrified to realize that I don’t know the answer.

“Why can’t I wear this?” I point to a shirt in a delicate shade of pink.

He scoffs and snatches the garment from the floor. Then he rips it in half and tosses the torn pieces at my feet. “Because you aren’t a fucking Winthorp doll in their pretty glass house.”

He moves quickly, drawing a gasp from my lips before I even process why: He gripped my chin with one massive hand, tilting it roughly so that he can view me from a different angle. I’m not sure what he sees from his vantage point. Fear? Submission?

Or a challenge?

“Unfold your arms.”

Alarm jolts through me, locking the limbs to my sides. “W-why?”

“Your arms.” He snatches my wrists himself and wrenches them apart. His eyes rake over my exposed torso without mercy, but I don’t miss how his tongue flicks along his lower lip with every inch gained. “I want you to think,” he demands. “You listen to your body. Tell me how it wants to be dressed—not with fucking pink. Not like Briar. Like…” Chuckling low in his throat, he leans in closer, and I assume he’s relishing the involuntary swallow racking my throat. “You. How does little Rose want to be dressed?”

“Not like your doll.” My fingers shake slightly as I test his grip, and I’m surprised when he lets me go. Slipping past him, I snatch another shirt from my pile on the floor. It’s a light shade of blue.

Mischa says nothing as I pull it on and then shimmy into a pair of jeans. When I gather the nerve to face him, he’s already near the door.

“Come.” He jerks his chin and enters the hall. Daylight streams in from a nearby row of windows, ghosting over the ornate wall fixtures and painting a stark contrast to my barren room. Enlighten me, he said?

Perhaps he’ll start with this.

“Do you own this place?”

Another raspy laugh rumbles from his chest—but this time, it lacks any humor. He sounds more guarded than anything. When we reach the staircase without him responding, I assume he won’t play this game after all.

“Tell me,” he says as he descends the first few steps, proving me wrong. “If I did, would that impress you?”

His back is to me, meaning he can’t see how my mouth twists in genuine contemplation. Would it? The answer comes quickly. No. Robert possessed wealth in spades. Yet, underneath, he was a simple man who craved simple, base things.

“Of course not,” Mischa assumes, answering for me. “You grew up in fucking Winthorp Manor. I’m sure your husband bathed you in diamonds.”

Ironically, he’s not far off. Though none of Robert’s many gifts were truly mine. I had nice dresses that he kept locked in a closet, allowed to be worn only at his discretion. I had trinkets and baubles that were his taste, not mine. Even my own servants deferred to him always.

“You don’t give a fuck if I own this,” Mischa declares, gesturing to our surroundings with a wave of his hand. We’ve reached the lower level, and he leads me past the main entrance and down a hallway. “A better question is how. Go on. Ask it. I know you want to.”

“Robert made his money through investments,” I say, parroting a term I’ve heard flung around my entire life to explain away the wealth of the Winthorps. Investments. With money. Into something. The details were never explained.

“You know that’s a fucking lie.” Mischa doesn’t waste putting any effort into the assertion. “The Winthorps trade inflesh, Little One. Women. Girls. They hide their business well, using a shipping company as a front, but it is slavery nonetheless.”

“Y-you’re lying,” I rasp automatically. Robert was a lot of things, but a sex trafficker?

“Don’t sound so surprised.” Mischa shoots me a glance over his shoulder. For once, his smug grin is absent. “I’m sure you’ve suspected as much. What other ‘investment’ could amass a man enough money to buy the whole fucking world?”

“Maybe I was that naïve,” I croak. So many things take on a darker connotation now. The foreign maids who staffed the manor. The secrecy around Robert’s accounts. My heart pangs as I consider the unthinkable: Could I have played a role in it all unknowingly?

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