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She blinks up at me, the picture of wide-eyed innocence. "Oh, just a little redecorating. I thought the house could use a refresh."
"A refresh," I repeat flatly. "Is there going to be a single piece of furniture I recognize left by the time you're done?"
Her lips twitch, a hint of a smirk playing at the corners. "I guess you'll have to wait and see." She tilts her head, studying me with a calculating glint in her eye. "You didn't specify a spending limit when you gave me your card. But if it's too much, if you can't afford it..."
I clench my jaw so hard my molars grind together. She's challenging me, baiting me in front of my staff. Waiting for me to lose my cool, to give her the reaction she so desperately craves.
But I refuse to play into her hands. I won't give her the satisfaction.
In reality, the far greater temptation is to grab her and pin her up against that sofa the movers are carrying in.
"It's fine," I say through gritted teeth, the words like broken glass in my mouth. "Spend away. But here," I say, reaching into my pocket to pull out my wallet. I pluck another card from the fold and hand it to her, savoring the confusion on her face. "If you're going to go on shopping sprees, you might as well use this. It collects frequent flyer miles."
She'll need them for all those trips she takes to my last fucking nerve.
Her incredulity lasts only a moment before she plucks the card from my hand and tucks it into her bra. Hardly a ladylike gesture, but clearly calculated to get a reaction out of me.
And it does.
"Wonderful," she says, her triumphant self once again. "I think you're really going to like what I've done with the place."
I give her a curt nod, already turning to stalk into the house. But her voice stops me in my tracks, honeyed and sweet as poison.
"Oh, there's one more thing! I had them do your study first, just in case you arrived home early again. But you might want to open a window to let the new furniture scent air out a bit."
I freeze, a sense of foreboding washing over me. My study. My sanctuary. The one place in this godforsaken house that was wholly, unequivocallymine.
What the fuck has she done?
I take the stairs two at a time, my heart pounding against my ribs. The door to my study looms before me, and I hesitate for a brief moment before grasping the handle and wrenching it open.
The sight that greets me is enough to make my blood run cold.
Everything, absolutelyeverything, has been replaced. My sleek black desk with a glass top is gone. In its place sits a huge mahogany desk with ornately carved legs and sides.
The bookshelves that once housed my carefully curated collection of first editions and rare tomes now hold a jumble of knick-knacks and tchotchkes interspersed with glossy coffee table books about art and fashion.
And the books themselves... I step closer, a sense of mounting horror washing over me as I realize they've been rearranged.
Alphabetized.
The chaos of my shelves, the organized mess that only I could navigate, has been replaced by a serial killer's wet dream of perfect order.
But the worst part, the absolute fucking cherry on top of this shit sundae, is the vase of flowers perched on the corner of my new desk. Bright, cheerful daisies, their sunny faces mocking me from their crystal prison.
I sink into the heavy leather armchair that has replaced my ergonomic desk chair, my head spinning.
This isn't just redecorating.
This is a declaration of war.
Evie has taken my attempt to make her life a living hell and thrown down the gauntlet. She's not content to play the passive victim, to wilt and wither under my cruelty. No, she's coming for me with everything she's got, targeting me where she knows it will hurt the most.
My space.
My control.
My fuckingsanity.
