Total pages in book: 40
Estimated words: 37885 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 189(@200wpm)___ 152(@250wpm)___ 126(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 37885 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 189(@200wpm)___ 152(@250wpm)___ 126(@300wpm)
As I walk her in through the front door, she smiles at me as she says she’s going to put on a suit and jump in the pool. And I remember all the reasons this is wrong and I’m going to hell or prison or maybe both.
Just the fact she’s going to jump in the pool is all wrong. She hates the water. Hates it. It’s been fun having this new Mina around but I love the old Mina as well. And part of me knows this can’t last forever.
I wander upstairs, but don’t turn for the room we’ve been sharing. This place is so big, but the cleaners I sent in gave me an itinerary of where I’ll find everything. They found the rest of Mina’s things in the fourth room at the end of this hallway, and that’s where they put her dresses, Barbies, and everything else that was strewn around the place by those assholes that came to her party.
And that’s exactly where I’m heading.
The room looks like it should. It reminds me of the Mina I know, the one I fell in love with. Sure, maybe this new Mina is a part of her, and I’d love her no matter what, but this room reminds me of the girl that stole my heart. I haven’t brought her into this room for fear that it would bring back her memories, but I wonder if I should do that and end this whole charade.
Inside the closet, I pull out her backpack and lay the Barbies lay out each doll with their miniature runway outfits. The intricacy and attention to detail are amazing, but I kneel and reach beneath the bed, and pull out two suitcases they packed up and tucked away at my instruction.
I open up one and find the clothes that the others were wearing when I got here. Torn seams, buckled zippers, buttons almost pulled completely off. But they’re works of art. Each one matching what the dolls are wearing. I pull the fabric of a blue satin dress to my face, inhaling deeply as I think about all the hours she must have put into this.
And I took that from her.
At first, maybe it was for her own benefit. Not letting her see how her hard work had been ruined. But it’s gone on too long for that excuse to hold water anymore. I should have shown her these things and let her memories come back if possible.
Fuck. What have I done?
Hating myself, I open the other suitcase. A few of the things aren’t hers, but that’s not the cleaners’ fault. They weren’t to know that Mina doesn’t wear red and black Louboutin heels. The fact that there’s only one of them means one of the girls that was here went home with one bare foot, but I don’t give a shit about that. I toss the few things aside that don’t look like they belong and draw out a pack of paperwork neatly tucked into a folder.
Darkness crowds around me. My own selfish needs spinning a web from which I’m not sure I’ll ever be released.
Why didn’t she tell me? Or fucking Dutton, her driver, the brother of a team mate who I planted and made sure got hired as our family’s new driver while also fucking paying him some sweet coin on the side to keep an eye on her. He sends me daily reports when she’s around. Pictures, notes, anything and everything he can.
So why did he leave out this deal about the design contest? I’ll be on his ass about that as soon as he gets back but right now all I can do is stare her loopy, neat writing on the pages the, the letter still folded in an envelope from Marie Claire magazine in New York.
We’re delighted to offer you a place in the show…
Jesus. Dutton mentioned something about her being super focused on making some new clothes, but he didn’t say anything about the actual contest. A big show in New York this week, and I had no idea.
My fingers are numb as I read the application, how her excitement comes through in every word she wrote. No wonder she was accepted, even without the fucking amazing work she does, nobody could possibly turn down someone with this much enthusiasm.
Under the application, there are sketches in colored pencil. Not gallery-worthy or anything, but it’s pretty obvious who the subject is. Me looking bored, me looking mean, me looking grumpy. Is that really how I look all the time?
Not this past few days, that’s for sure. I’ve changed.
I dig deeper, finding a tattered leather diary. It falls open to a random page, and my name jumps out at me. Little fantasies, things she imagined us doing together. Innocent by the standards of my own thoughts about her, but still…