Page 3 of Fallen Heir
"That’s your outfit for tonight," she beamed, victorious in her win.
"Did you buy this today?" I asked, knowing she’d been at the office all day.
"Nope, it’s from my closet. Lucky you."
I burst out laughing, a notion that still sent a little pain to my side. Millie had legs for miles, while I barely reached five-foot-five on tiptoe. Even in stilettos, I’d still look up to her barefoot. Add to that the fact that I carried more weight around my chest, hips, and thighs, and there was no way anything from her closet would fit over my right boob.
"Millie, there’s no way I’m wearing anything that came out of your closet. What size are you, anyway? Zero?"
"Just open the damn bag," she smirked. I hesitated but complied. While the little black dress seemed to have more fabric than the one she had on, I still knew it wouldn’t be enough to cover my ass. I held it up and shot Millie a doubtful look.
"Just humor me, would you?" she pressed, more irritated now.
In that moment, I wondered if I really needed a friend like this. But I snatched the bag and stormed off to my bedroom. I’d learned the hard way—Millie could be relentless, and giving in was easier than arguing. Pick your battles, right?
The plush carpet beneath my feet still felt foreign. Back in Mountain Brook, Alabama, I had a beautiful home tucked away on a few wooded acres. That house would be the next thing I’d have to figure out how to deal with when I divorced Bruce. A gift from my parents for our wedding. He could have it, for all I cared. If it meant he’d walk away and leave me in peace, it would be worth it.
I pulled the black dress over my body. It was a little short, but it wasn’t that bad. Okay, I’d give Millie some credit—it hugged my curves in all the right places, if I cared to have men look at me that way. Bonus points for the long sleeves, which helped cover the marks on my arms.
But the relief was short-lived. Millie never asked why I always wore long sleeves, even on those sweltering hot days in Manhattan. Unfortunately, the dress didn’t cover the scars on my legs—the ones that were larger than they would’ve been if I’d gone to a doctor to have them stitched.
Thank God for leggings and stockings. They allowed me to wear skirts or dresses without drawing too much attention. I grabbed a pair of sheer black stockings and slipped them on before adding heels.
I took a long look at my reflection. I immediately felt dissatisfied. I swapped the stockings for leather pants and traded the dress for a long-sleeved silk blouse. I glanced at myself again in the mirror, but it still wasn’t right. The closed-toe heels made me look like a "slutty secretary," and the outfit felt more like something I’d wear to work than out to a club.
I stood in front of the mirror, staring at myself, mentally drained. I didn’t want to go to this club. I didn’t want to go out at all. Yet, here I was, beating myself up over every outfit. I doubted it was any different from other women trying to find the perfect look. But for me, it wasn’t about how the clothes fit. It was about how I felt in my own skin.
I wasn’t beautiful. I was marred.
When I looked in the mirror now, I didn’t see the woman my mother had raised. The girl that spent her weekends at dance recitals and pageants. I saw a woman who’d let a man destroy her spirit and body. I ran my fingers over the scar on my side, which seemed to go on forever. The image of Bruce standing over me, laughing when he realized I’d cut myself on the railing after he’d pushed me down the stairs, flooded my mind.
The abuse had taken its toll, but in the quiet of my apartment—when the city noise dulled and the lights dimmed—I could almost pretend I was safe. Almost.
But pretending didn’t change the truth.
My body wasn’t beautiful anymore. It looked like something out of a horror movie—scarred, bruised, battered. Like someone had left me for dead, and somehow, I had survived.
Which, in reality, I had.
Some days, I couldn’t look at myself. Other days, I stood in front of the mirror and forced myself to stare—like tonight.
I watched my reflection as I changed, my fingers grazing the scar that traced along my side. My skin didn’t feel like mine anymore. The girl I used to be was gone, and what remained was a stranger in borrowed clothes and a hollow stare.
I replaced the pants with stockings again, tugging at the white blouse I had on, trying to shift my focus, but it clung to my skin like a reminder of everything I wanted to forget.
"Nice ass," Millie taunted from the doorway, yanking me from the spiral. I grabbed the robe hanging behind me to cover up before she saw the marks on my skin. Her eyebrows furrowed as she stopped, hands raised in surrender.
"How long have you been standing there? Did you see...?" I didn’t finish the thought, too afraid to meet her gaze, my head falling to the floor.
"Relax, Vannah. We’re two women. I’m not ogling your body," Millie said, though her grin told a different story. "Well, I kind of was. You really do have a nice ass. But seriously, you’ve been in here for almost thirty minutes."
I sighed and kicked the ground like a child. "I can’t find anything to wear."
Millie glanced around my closet, which could easily sustain me for three months without a wash, then turned back at me, raising an eyebrow.
"Okay, okay. I don’t go out much, so I don’t knowwhatto wear."
"You mean you’ve never gone clubbing in college?" Millie asked, more in disbelief than curiosity.
