Page 53 of Hot Lap
That kind of careless wealth is so alien, it’s unsettling. I mean, when you’ve been dirt poor, what do you do with that kind of shift in reality? I don’t even know how to wrap my head around it.
That Reece realizes how fucking weird this situation is for me, earns him another positive checkmark on his balance sheet.
That and the roses.
After breakfast, I snap a few photos of my room’s ridiculously huge bed, the fancy-ass bathroom, and the sprawling view of the marina, then text them to Frankie with a laughing emoji.
How long d’you think before someone figures out I’m the raggedy version of Cinderella and that shoe ain’t never gonna fit?
Then I check in with Delilah and Yasmine to make sure everything's okay at the club and with the students.
Delilah responds.
All good. You just focus on being fabulous.
Her message makes me smile. Two days ago, I was just Mai-Lan Rouge, burlesque performer from Vegas. Now I'm being chauffeured around Qatar, sleeping in a suite that makes my jaw drop, and being told to be "fabulous" like it's my new job description.
Well, if fabulous is what they want...
I put my phone aside and fetch my sewing kit and one of the projects I brought along. My Cherry Bomb corset needs finishing, and the familiar ritual of stitching sequins and seed beads is a meditative way to pass the morning. There's something grounding about working with my hands, connecting me to the life I’ve built for myself back home.
By midday, the corset is coming together beautifully, rows of cherry-red sequins gleaming against glossy red fabric. I stretch, rolling my neck to release stiffness as I gaze around the luxurious room.
It’s absurd, really. I’m sewing a handmade burlesque costume surrounded by obscene luxury. This is working-class work done in a setting that drips with privilege.
That contrast sparks an idea. Since I'm gonna be thrust into the spotlight as Reece Pritchard's scandalous new wife, I might as well control the narrative.
"Waste not, want not." I set the corset aside and go to the dresser to look through the lingerie sets Branca and her team picked out for me. They may have avoided risk in the closet, but there’s plenty of risqué here. I fish out a black lace bralette and matching high-waisted panties with delicate gold embroidery. The set is pure silk, and I admire its craftsmanship while forming a plan.
I add a sheer black lace and satin robe that whispers around my legs when I move. Sexy, but still just within the bounds of classy. I gotta wonder what ulterior motives my husband’s manager had when she chose this.
Also? Qatari wives have somesecrets.
I curl my hair into soft waves and spend a good hour getting my makeup flawless, including the smokiest eye with some extra drama in the form of tiny crystals at the inside and outside corners. A swipe of deep red lipstick finishes the look. Then I use coverup and powder to disappear the bruises from my wrist. They’ve turned a sickly greenish hue. Not sexy at all.
I set up my camera phone and pose by the window with the new bouquet from Reece, an avalanche of perfect crimson roses to mirror the red on my lips. I’m going for elegance meets absolutely no illusion of innocence. I lift the deep red blooms to my cheek, hiding my breasts behind them, but allowing one bare shoulder to peek out just enough to tease without crossing the line.
I snap a few selfies, checking the angles. On the third try, I nail it: a wink, a smile, and just enough skin to make it clear I’m not the sweet princess some of these people expected Reece Pritchard to wed.
I post it to my performer account with a saucy caption.
@MaiLanRouge:Married, not tamed. #MaiLanRouge #CherryBomb #ThisIsBurlesqueBaby
After the post is live, I pluck the card from the newest bouquet. I’d forgotten all about it.
Thank you for making me the luckiest man in any room. —RP 11
Holy shit.
I trace the edge of the card with my thumb, lower lip between my teeth and breath a little uneven.
Maybe I'm not the only one figuring this shit out.
Last night, Reece saw me struggling in a world I had no map for, and he didn't make me feel small for it. Instead, he directed me with subtlety, without judgment, without dismissing me.
Then he’d apologized at my door with a sincerity so raw it nearly broke me.
I'd dug deep to stay composed in front of him, but the moment I closed myself in the shower, I'd sobbed, washing off the night's tension, my makeup, and the knot of emotion I couldn't hold inside any longer. I’d been exhausted, grateful, and overwhelmed by his goodness.
