Page 8

With how the dress is designed, I’m not wearing anything underneath, so I’m fully naked in my husband’s bathroom. Refusing to think about that, I move to the shower and turn the handles until water thunders against the glass enclosure.

Before stepping under the spray, I get a towel and hang it on the hook just outside the shower cubicle. Then I grab my shower products from the suitcase. It isn’t much, just soap. I also have my shampoo and conditioner, but I’m not sure I should make Domenico wait that long.

No, it’s better to get this over with so I know Mom’s safe.

With that thought, I hurry through washing myself, finishing the shower much sooner than I want to. Seriously, with the water pressure, I could stand here for hours and not have had enough.

I shut it off and step onto the mat, reaching for the towel. It’s thick, softer than anything in my parents’ apartment, and I press it against my face before working it down my body.

As soon as I’m dry, I find my lotion and squeeze plenty into my palm, working it into my legs, my stomach, and my arms. The scent is familiar, something cheap and floral, and I cling to it as proof that I still exist somewhere beneath this performance.

The toothbrush I packed is still wrapped in tissue. I unwrap it, find the paste in my kit, and scrub until my gums sting. The mirror has cleared enough to show my mouth pink and swollen, and I touch up the makeup I ruined with careful strokes.

My hair takes longer. I work the brush through the waves until they fall smoothly down my back. The rhythm soothes something in my chest, and I let myself pretend for thirty seconds that I’m somewhere else, someone else, a girl with options.

I set the brush down and reach deeper into the suitcase. The tissue paper crinkles, and I know what I’m pulling out before I see it. My dad’s voice accompanies the unwrapping.

“This is what men want, Kira. This is what keeps them interested. You wear this, you make sure he takes what he’s owed, and your mom keeps breathing. You understand?”

I understood then, and I still understand now.

The babydoll dress is constructed of nothing—straps that will dig into my shoulders, a deep V-neck that plunges to the waist, an open front held together by a single clasp beneath where my breasts will sit.

The matching thong is a strip of lace that will leave nothing to the imagination. I hold it up and try to see myself wearing it, trying to find the version of Kira who can survive this.

I step into the thong first, pulling it up until the lace settles against my skin. Then the babydoll dress, working my arms through the straps, adjusting until the single clasp sits beneath my breasts, holding the front open in a way that feels more intimate than full nudity.

Rather than checking my reflection straight away, I procrastinate and smooth the straps, check the clasp, make sure everything sits where it’s designed to sit. Then I lift my head.

The woman in the mirror is someone I don’t recognize. The black lace cuts across her skin like a weapon, highlighting the fullness of her breasts and hips, and the vulnerability of her throat.

Her hazel eyes look too large for her face, and there’s something in them I can’t name—resignation, maybe, or the particular bravery of people who have nothing left to lose.

I hold my own gaze for a long moment, long enough to feel the heat building in my cheeks, long enough to remind myself why I’m doing this.

Deciding that maybe I should make more of an effort, I find the small mascara and add a fresh coat. I don’t bother with more makeup than that, but there’s no denying it makes my eyes pop in a good way.

“Here goes nothing,” I whisper to myself.

Then I pull the door open. “Domenico,” I say as I step back into the bedroom. “I’m ready.” I inwardly cringe at how stupid I sound. But I shouldn’t have cared because the bedroom is empty.

The charcoal duvet hasn’t been disturbed; the pillows are still stacked in their precise arrangement against the headboard. Even though he clearly isn’t here, I call his name again, louder this time.

“Domenico?”

I move to the center of the room and turn in a slow circle, as if he might be hiding behind the drapes or tucked into the closet I saw earlier. The windows reflect my own image back at me—black lace and bare arms, hair falling down my back, the picture of a bride prepared for her wedding night.

Prepared for a husband who isn’t present.

I walk to the bedroom doorway and push the door open, only enough so that I can look down the hall. The lights are dimmed; the path we took from the elevator is lost in shadow.

“Domenico?”

The third time isn’t the charm as I still don’t get a reply.

I force my feet to move, to carry me back through the spaces I barely registered on arrival. The hallway stretches longer than I remember, doors closed on either side, each one a question I don’t want to ask.

When I reach the guest room he tried to give me, I look in there on the off chance he wanted to be away from me badly enough to stay there himself. Nope, that room’s empty.