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There is no question they want what you try on to look better in the dressing room than anywhere else—unlike the average dressing room that seems to thrill in cheap weird mirrors that make you look fat and lighting angles that give you the appearance of a mustache when you didn’t walk into the store with one.
The gowns have all been hung on a nearby rack to keep them from getting wrinkled. My mother got the other gowns in my size but I check the Dior, holding my breath. It looked about my size, and I’m thrilled to see that it is—not that sizes are some universal standard. It can be altered, but I think this one will fit. And if it doesn’t, it will be a touch too big rather than too small, which makes it easier to tailor—not that I would ever want to have any but the most experienced hands touching a work of art like this. It would be like painting corrections over the Mona Lisa.
I lock the door and dig my phone out of my bag.
Do you have cameras in the dressing room? I text.
I can almost hear his chuckle, even though I have no idea what he sounds like as an adult.
Of course not. He texts back.
How do I know that? Do you have cameras anywhere in the shop?
Maddie, I’m flattered you think my power reaches that far.
I know how far his power reaches. And it definitely reaches into a bridal shop, no matter how exclusive. I don’t believe his denials for a second.
Another text pops up. No cameras. I wouldn’t want to see you in your dress before the big day. It’s bad luck.
I toss the phone onto the sofa next to my bag and pace the room a few times, nervously scouring every corner for some kind of unobtrusive bug or camera, not sure I trust his word on this. I’ve become so paranoid these past few weeks, but I really should order one of those scanners that checks rooms for this sort of thing. It’s not like my security detail goes through my mail or packages. Not yet, anyway. But Aidan would see me scanning the room to remove his devices, and I’m sure he’d just have new ones installed.
A couple of minutes later, I get another text.
Are you in the changing room now? He asks.
I hesitate before typing back: Yes.
Why am I communicating with him at all?
Good. I want you to pull down your panties and send me a picture of that untouched virgin pussy.
I just gawk at the phone in my hand. I think back to my mysterious rescuer in the alley. I’ve been fantasizing about the mystery man almost non-stop, even though I haven’t been able to do anything about it because I know Aidan’s hidden cameras will catch me in the act.
Would it be so bad for cameras to catch it if I’m covered up? It’s not like Aidan would be able to see anything—just a little movement under the sheets and a facial expression, maybe some sounds. Maybe I could wait until it was very late and he was surely asleep, and then be very careful not to move and to be quiet. Even if he skimmed through the footage later, maybe he wouldn’t notice or realize what was happening.
Two weeks without using my toy is practically a lifetime. I’m an orgasm-a-day kind of girl, and if I don’t resume that schedule soon, I might crawl right out of my own skin. Even if no man has touched me like that, it doesn’t mean I’m not an expert at touching myself like that.
What if it was the guy from the alley texting this request? Would I do it? I’m not sure. A flush of arousal rolls over me, even as I try to deny what I might do if the stranger from the alley demanded it.
But it doesn’t matter. I doubt he’s stalking me with the same kind of fervor as Aidan, if at all. Men say shit like “I’ll see you around,” all the time… isn’t that really just the proverbial “I’ll call you”?
My phone buzzes with another text. It would please me. And pleasing me will raise the quality of your life. I wait while the three dots pop up to see what he’s typing to add onto this proclamation.
Significantly.
I swallow around the lump in my throat and text back. Sorry, you have to wait until the wedding. I’m an old-fashioned kind of girl. Can I really buy myself two and a half months? I have to. I can barely let my traumatized mind think about what he’ll make me do when he finally has me isolated from my family and the rest of the world.
You’re not old-fashioned. You’re just picky. He replies.
Says the man who has to force a woman to marry him.
I regret the text as soon as I send it.
Several minutes pass, and I think he’s angry. Maybe I should get a less expensive dress. I’m playing with fire, after all. He may have terrorized me when we were kids with his constant lurking presence, but he has actual power to hurt me now. And no one is coming to save me, no matter how much I might wish the stranger from the alley would or could.
Finally, another text comes through.
No, my dear, I’ve had an endless parade of women falling at my feet for years. I had to force you specifically because you are the one I want, and we already know those feelings are not returned.