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Crossing her legs, she covers one foot with the other like she’s trying to hide that she’s barefoot, while her fingers move to her braid and she fidgets uncomfortably. “I look better with my hair and makeup done,” she mumbles awkwardly.
“Nonsense, you’re absolutely gorgeous just as you are. Sit, eat, then tell me a little about your style,” Fitzy says, talking quietly like you would to a skittish animal and doing his best to put her at ease.
“I wear a lot of dresses,” Princess says, carefully tucking my shirt beneath her butt as she climbs up onto the stool opposite Fitzy’s.
“Is that because you like them, or because your mom liked them?” I question, not looking at her as I place her plate full of stir-fry in front of her.
“I…” she says, her cheeks turning pink.
“With those legs, you can wear anything you want,” Fitzy says quickly, flashing me a glare before he focuses back on Penelope.
Taking the stool next to hers, I lay my palm on her leg, rubbing my thumb back and forth over the skin on her thigh. She tenses for a moment, then relaxes beneath my touch, and I lift my fork and eat with my free hand.
Fitzy begins to eat, and I watch from the corner of my eye as Princess stares at the food like it’s going to attack her.
Turning, she whispers. “What’s in here?”
“All healthy and fresh, just chicken, veggies, noodles, and homemade satay sauce,” I tell her, watching as she swallows thickly and her eyes become glassy. I don’t know what her deal with food is, but she seems to have some major hang-ups over what she can and can’t eat. She never replied to my message about offering orgasms as a reward for her eating, and if I had to guess, I doubt she touched the food I ordered for us.
“I—” she starts.
Twisting on my seat, I drop my own fork to my plate and pick up hers instead. Stabbing a baby corn, I lift it to her lips. “Eat, Princess,” I coax, coating the words in dominance so she knows it’s an order despite how softly I’ve spoken.
She falters, but only for a second before she slowly parts her lips and carefully bites. I forget Fitzy is even in the room as I focus all of my attention on Penelope. Chewing slowly, she swallows, then takes a second, slightly larger bite. Once she’s finished the corn, I use her fork to eat some of my own food, then stab a piece of chicken and bring it to her lips, staring at her intently until she takes it from the fork.
“So, dresses,” Fitzy says, clearing his throat, his gaze bouncing between me and the girl beside me.
“My mom liked me to wear dresses most of the time,” she confesses, eating the food I bring to her lips.
“And do you like dresses?” he asks kindly, his attention on his food.
Swallowing her gaze drifts off into space. “I…” She pauses, thinking. “I-I don’t know.”
Fitzy’s expression softens. “Well, after dinner, I can help you figure it out.”
For the next several minutes, I feed her, taking bites of my own food while she slowly chews each mouthful. Fitzy doesn’t ask why I’m feeding her, and we eat while he makes small talk, trying to get my Princess to open up about her likes and dislikes. When he asks about designers she prefers, it’s like a switch is flipped and my Princess disappears, and Penelope Rhodes, heiress, emerges. Her answers become practiced, robotic, and orchestrated, and I fucking hate it.
When I glance at Fitzy, his brow is furrowed, and he’s looking at Penelope like she’s a completely different person, and that’s because right now she is. Sliding my hand from her leg, I lean away from her. She turns to look at me, and I see true confusion in her eyes. She doesn’t know she’s gone from sweet and sincere to Penelopebot, and for the first time, I truly see how ingrained her indoctrination is. It’s more than just manners and behaviors, she has a completely separate personality that she switches on and off, and I don’t think she’s even aware she’s doing it.
I may not like the cold, impersonal side of her, but right now she isn’t being cruel or bitchy, she isn’t trying to manipulate Fitzy, she’s just behaving in the way she’s been taught to behave. The realization is startling and so obvious that I feel stupid for not seeing it earlier.
Izzy has been telling us all along that her twin is as much a victim as she was of their parents’ malice, and we all denied it, but she was right. Where Izzy was ignored, Penelope was bombarded. Where Izzy was forced to pretend to be Penelope, her sister was forced into a mold of their parents’ creation. Both girls have been abused by their parents, just in completely different ways.
Penelope has been telling me all along that she isn’t innocent. She’s played the heiress game and did as she was told. I’ve been assuming that my Princess is weak and broken, but I’m starting to see that she’s so much more resilient than I thought. She became who she needed to be to appease her parents and follow her great-grandfather’s will, but she didn’t allow the money and lies to destroy the sweet girl she kept hidden beneath the hardened mask. My Princess, the one I like, the one I crave, is still there beneath the façade of polished creation, despite the girl’s parents’ best efforts to make her just as heartless and evil as they are.
Leaning down, I smile and press a kiss to her shoulder, and it’s like my touch flips a switch. Her fake smile fades and her posture relaxes, like she’s shedding the polished mirage as my Princess reappears. Her softened gaze blinks at me, and a small, sad smile hitches the side of her beautiful lips.
Penelope Rhodes is a complicated, fucked-up, beautiful mess, and I want her—all of her. I’m rarely a selfish person, but I’m rich enough, stubborn enough, and controlling enough to know that she’s my new obsession, and whether she knows it or not, she’s mine.
18
PENELOPE
Until last night, when I allowed myself to taste each of the forbidden room service dishes Hawthorn ordered, I’d honestly forgotten what good food tasted like. But apparently it tastes even better when it’s a hot boy who’s feeding it to you. I know I shouldn’t be eating anything on my plate. The veggies might have been allowed, but definitely not when they’re coated in the rich, nutty sauce that’s making my taste buds dance with delight. But when I told him no, he ordered me to eat, and I couldn’t resist.
I know we must look bizarre, me sitting in just his shirt while he feeds me dinner, sharing a fork with me like it’s something we’ve done a thousand times before. But the more I allow myself to sink into his control, the easier it is for me.
Hawthorn isn’t like any of the men I’ve met before. Earlier, he demanded that I stop treating him like he was one of the boys on my great-grandfather’s list, and until he said it, I hadn’t really realized that’s what I’d been doing.
