Page 15 of Desperate Measures
5
Yasmina
Jafar’s gone when I wake. This time, there’s no denying the disappointment. I’m a fool and a half for wanting him, for wanting to spend time with him, but I can’t control my emotions. If that were possible, I’d be tempted to banish them completely.
I wander into the kitchen in search of coffee and find a pot waiting for me. The fridge contains my favorite creamer, newly purchased by the expiration date. I hadn’t realized he noticed such small details. I don’t think I’ve ever even seen Jafar in the morning before.
Not that it’s morning now. I’ve slept past noon.
Next to the coffee maker is a sticky note with a schedule written on it in short, bold strokes.
2 p.m.—Stylist
8 p.m.—Be ready
Just that. Nothing more. Then again, I suppose I don’t need to know more. As much as I want to bar the door against the stylist out of spite, the truth is that I need clothing. It’s the only armor I’ve ever owned, and being without has me on edge.
I check the clock. I have enough time to shower and get ready to meet this stylist. Putting even that much effort exhausts me, but I can’t afford to waver now. Not when I don’t know what tonight—what the future—will bring. I need every weapon at my disposal.
An hour and a half later, I’m wrapped in a short robe nearly identical to the one Jafar ruined the night before, my hair done and my makeup impeccable. It doesn’t escape my notice that Jafar had the bathroom stocked with my brands, all shiny and new.
He planned this.
I knew, of course. Jafar isn’t one to leave anything to chance. But knowing that he ordered this room outfitted for me… I can’t tell if I like it or loathe it. It seems to be an overarching theme when it comes to me and Jafar.
The stylist shows up early.
She’s a short, curvy woman with shoulder-length blond hair and an attitude that conveys an instant chip on her shoulder. Her high-waisted trousers and fitted white blouse look classy and sexy at the same time, and she raises a single pierced eyebrow when she sees me. “Dear god, we have so much work to do.”
“Excuse me?”
“No need to excuse anything, princess.” She turns back to the elevator and snaps her fingers. Two hulking men wheel out rack after rack of clothing in a rainbow of colors. Another snap of her fingers and they disappear back into the elevator.
I can’t tell if they’re her men or Jafar’s, but they obeyed her without blinking. I envy her that power. My father’s men only ever obeyed me out of fear of him. I imagine Jafar’s men will do the same. Never because of the threat I pose or the power I wield.?1
She arranges the racks in the living room and then points to a spot in the center. “Stand here. Robe off.”
I don’t move. I may bend to Jafar because I have no choice, but this woman is under the mistaken impression than I’m a cowering flower just waiting to be trampled. “Some courtesy would do you good.”
The blond rolls her green eyes. “Yeah, that isn’t how this works. I’m the best at what I do, and being the best means you listen to me, not the other way around.” She points to the spot again and injects enough sugar into her tone to give me a cavity. “Unless you’d rather walk around naked?”
She has me cornered and she knows it. I grit my teeth. I know better than to bargain from a weak position where I have nothing to gain and everything to lose. This is just a job to her. “If you don’t dress me, you don’t get paid.”
“Cute.” She smirks. “Contract says I get half up front. You throw a hissy fit, that money’s still mine and I have a free afternoon. You don’t have the leverage, so you might as well give it up now.”
I hate that she’s right.
I stalk to the spot she indicated and shrug out of the robe.
The woman whistles. “No wonder Jafar lost his godsforsaken mind over you.” She circles me, her gaze calculating. “Jewel tones, yes. Perfect. Just perfect.” As if I’m a piece of art rather than a person.
I’ve botched this. I need allies, not enemies. I take a deep breath and do my best to banish my anger. It’s not even directed at her, not really. She’s just a convenient target that turned out to be not that convenient. “I’m Yasmina.”
“I know.” She rifles through the first rack. “I’m Tink. No, we can’t be friends. No, I don’t have any useful information for you to mine. No, I won’t do anything to compromise my contract.”
Well, so much for that offer of an olive branch. Strangely enough, her abruptness has already started to grow on me. She’s like being slapped in the face with an arctic wind—cold and bitter and somehow refreshing all the same. “You have a contract with Jafar?”
She shoots me an exasperated look. “No, of course not. Who the hell has contracts with Jafar?” At my look of confusion, she frowns harder. “Holy crap, you really have no idea how this works, do you?”
