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“Perfect.” Vance’s lips curve into a faint but cruel smile.
The next hour is a surreal, out-of-body experience. The woman, whose name I learn is Elise, leads me into a cavernous dressing room lined with velvet and lit by soft, flattering light. She brings me a deep sapphire dress that fits perfectly, hugging my curves in a way my own clothes never have.
When I step out of the dressing room, Vance’s eyes darken as they sweep over me. “Better,” he opines with a low rumble. “The color is good, but it’s too conservative. Turn around.” With stiff movements, I obey, immediately feeling his eyes on the curve of my ass. He’s silent for a moment before instructing, “Go back. Try something else.”
I try on a few more outfits before donning a pair of high-waisted wool trousers with a plunging silk camisole. “That’s more like it.” A slow smile spreads across his face when I step before him. “But the heels are wrong, Elise. Higher.”
Elise reappears with a shoebox, inside a pair of sky-high, blood-red pumps with soles to match. I slip them on my feet, and they instantly transform my posture and demeanor. Not only do I feel taller, but I also feel more powerful.
Vance rises from his chair and crosses the room until we’re only a few feet apart. His eyes roll down my body, from the V of the camisole, down to where the trousers hug my hips, and to the impossibly high heels. “This is much better,” he whispers, and the intimate rumble sends a shiver along my spine.
“We can move on to lingerie,” Vance informs Elise after I obtain his approval on more outfits than I could possibly wear in an entire month. I had hoped he was just posturing earlier and making a point about his control, but the look on his face tells me he is quite serious.
Elise follows me into the dressing room, her arms laden with delicate scraps of lace and silk. She lays them out on the velvet bench, a collection of sheer black lace bras, panties made of silk so fine they’re practically transparent, and a corset of boned satin with zero functional purpose.
“Mr. Ashford was very specific,” Elise says, her voice a conspiratorial whisper. “He wants you to feel… cherished. But also, desired. He wants to know you’re wearing something exquisite, just for him, under whatever else you have on.”
Vance joins me in the dressing room as I pull a pair of panties—if that’s what you can call them—over my hips. “Come closer,” he rumbles. For a moment, I think he’s going to touch me and claim me again. Instead, he circles me with assessing eyes like he’s inspecting the delicate lace that barely covers me. “You look exactly as my wife should—beautiful, fuckable, and mine.” The first two words barely register, but it’s the third that causes my breath to catch in my throat.
He leaves me to dress, and when I walk out of the dressing room, Vance is at the counter with Elise, her smile wide and fawning. She tells him the total, and I nearly vomit as he hands over his credit card without so much as batting an eye.
“Vance…” I muster, barely.
He turns toward me with an unreadable expression. “What?”
“I can’t accept—”
“I wasn’t asking you to, sweetheart.”
He turns back to Elise and retrieves his card. “Please have it all delivered to my apartment by this afternoon.”
“Yes. Of course, Mr. Ashford.” She smiles at me. “We look forward to seeing you again soon, Mrs. Ashford.”
Mrs. Ashford…
One day. That’s all it’s been, yet somehow, Vance is already turning me into the woman I swore I’d never become.
Stepping off the elevator, I’m surrounded by the familiar symphony of power and ambition that hums through The Ashford Group’s executive floor. With Sophia by my side, the space quiets with every stride we make through the glass-walled corridors, replaced by a wave of hushed whispers as heads turn in our direction and conversation dies at the sight of us. While my sole presence garners a similar reaction, the beautiful blonde beside me has amplified it exponentially.
“Vance,” Sophia harshly whispers, and I can feel the tension in her body through my palm resting at the small of her back. “Everyone is looking at us.
“Maybe…” I murmur, my gaze fixed on the double doors of the boardroom ahead. “But they’re definitely looking at you.”
As they should be.
She is a fucking vision in her new wardrobe. Thanks to a pair of wine-red Monolos and a gray herringbone skirt that ends a good four inches above her knees, the long, toned lines of her gorgeous legs are on full display. It’s accompanied by a soft cashmere sweater that clings to her body, showcasing her narrow waist and full breasts without being overtly revealing. She looks expensive and sophisticated, as an Ashford should.
I push open the heavy doors and guide her inside. The long, glass table is already occupied—my brothers, mother, and a handful of men, who lend an air of legitimacy to our family’s reign, scattered around the table. A palpable wave of hushed whispers and skepticism washes over the non-family members of the board as I offer Sophia the vacant chair beside mine and take my seat. Their gazes dart between us with undisguised curiosity as they shift uncomfortably in their expensive leather chairs.
“Gentlemen,” I break the silence in the room, “I’d like to formally introduce my wife, Mrs. Sophia Ashford, to the board.”
Timothy Donohue, a man who has held a voting share since I was in diapers, chokes on his coffee. The other men in his position manage to hide their shock a tad better, only staring back at us in disbelief.
“As you know,” I continue, leaning forward and resting my palms flat on the table, “my late father had been looking to fill the position of Executive Vice President of Strategic Development. Honoring one of the last choices he had made for this company, I insist we fill it with Sophia.”
Startled more than some of the men on the board, Sophia whips her head toward me. Her eyes are wide with disbelief, her lips parted with unspoken words. The appointment isn’t about her qualifications—which are admittedly impressive—or her status as my wife. This is about control, about votes. Because my little wife will vote as I tell her to.
“All right,” I breathe, leaning back in my chair and steepling my fingers beneath my chin. “Let’s get to it.”
