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This time, I don’t bring up my daughters, so it’s a lot less tense.
“Let me do that,” Portia says as I reach for the towel in her hands, attempting to dry me off.
“Thanks, but I can manage,” I reply firmly, taking the towel from her and wrapping it around myself. She doesn’t seem fazed by my naked body, and I wonder how many people she does this for.
I’m surprised to see a dress lying on the bed for me when I reach the bedroom. It’s gorgeous, a lot like the ones the women were wearing at the masquerade ball. “I’m getting this dolled up for a dinner?” I ask her.
She smiles. “Here the dinners are thought of as formal occasions, so everyone makes themselves look presentable.”
Weird.
“I’ll dress you.”
“I’ve never had someone dress me before.”
“You’ll enjoy it.”
I doubt that.
Portia dresses me, her fingers nimble as they fasten the buttons on the silk dress. I watch her work, noting how her hands tremble ever so slightly. She must be just as nervous as I am. As she starts curling my hair, I attempt to engage her in conversation.
“Is this what it’s like for you every day?” I ask, trying to gauge her feelings about this place.
“Uh, yes,” she mumbles, not daring to meet my gaze. Her responses seem abrupt and shallow, almost as if she’s afraid of saying too much. I would be too, considering what happened last time. I decide to try a different approach.
“Have you worked here long?”
“Long enough,” she replies evasively, focusing intently on my hair. I want to know more, but I don’t want to push her too hard.
She works on my makeup next.
The moment Portia steps back, signaling she’s finished with her work, I hesitantly turn to face the mirror. My breath catches in my throat as I take in the reflection staring back at me. The person in the mirror is a stranger—elegant and poised, exuding an air of sophistication I’ve never quite managed to achieve.
“Wow,” I whisper, reaching up to touch the soft waves that frame my face. My eyes, once smoldering emerald pools, now seem to glow with an intensity that both thrills and terrifies me. If this were any other time or place, I might have been excited about this transformation. But right now, all I want is to see my children.
“Come on,” Portia says, interrupting my thoughts. “I’ll take you downstairs.”
As we descend the grand staircase, I can’t help but marvel at the luxurious surroundings. It’s clear that no expense has been spared in the design and décor of this mansion. Crystal chandeliers hang from gilded ceilings, casting shadows that dance along the dark wood-paneled walls. Plush carpets muffle our footsteps as we move through the vast space, each room more extravagant than the last.
“Have you ever seen anything like this before?” I ask, unable to contain my awe.
“Never,” Portia admits, her voice barely above a whisper. “And I’ve been here for years.”
“Years?” I repeat, incredulous. “How do you do it? How do you survive in a place like this?”
“Sometimes, you don’t have much choice.” As she speaks, she wrings her hands together nervously. “But I get by. You learn to adapt.”
“Adapt,” I echo, the word bitter on my tongue. I’m not sure I have it in me to adapt to a life like this—a life governed by fear and secrets.
“Here we are,” Portia announces as we reach the bottom of the staircase and make it to the dining room. I take a deep breath, steeling myself for whatever comes next. This is my first time leaving my room since I was brought here…maybe a week ago? Time seems to blur together in this place.
“Thank you, Portia,” I tell her sincerely, offering a small smile. If I’m going to stay here, it wouldn’t be a bad idea to have an ally.
“Take a seat, Miss Tryst,” Portia says softly, gesturing to a chair at the head of the table. Hesitating for a moment, I lower myself into the plush, velvet-covered seat, feeling out of place in my lavish surroundings.
As if on cue, the heavy double doors at the end of the room swing open, revealing professional chefs carrying silver platters filled with mouthwatering dishes. The aroma wafts toward me, reminding me just how famished I am. It’s been far too long since I’ve had a decent meal, and my stomach growls in anticipation.
“Please, enjoy, Miss Tryst,” one of the chefs says, setting down a platter of succulent roasted duck, glazed with honey and oranges. Another follows, placing a dish of creamy lobster bisque before me.
