Page 22 of Inside the Maelstrom: Part One
“Let’s see how bad we can make you, Good Girl,” I growled, and watched a shiver run over her skin. Mmm, yes. This was fun.
Chapter12
Aviva
Well, I couldn’t say the girl in the dressing room mirror was beige anymore. Sampson had dressed me up somewhere between hooker and badass bitch. He was insane of course, and seriously fucking annoying. I could hear him out there approving and rejecting outfits.
As aggravating as it was though, he had good taste. I looked beautiful. The cuts flattered my figure, the material well made and not ostentatious.
The price tags nearly gave me an aneurysm.
“Hendrick, I can’t afford this shit,” I hissed as I flicked back the curtain. But Hendrick apparently didn’t believe in change rooms. Instead, he was standing in his boxer shorts right outside my change room, completely unfazed by the fact that his whole body was on display and the personal shoppers were eating him up with their eyes. Hell, he probably loved it.
I dragged my eyes from the V of his hips back to his damn smirking face, clearing my throat. “I draw the line. I can’t take this.”
Hendrick just grinned at me. “I refuse to take you to Europe looking like a fucking hobo, so suck it up, Viva.”
“Go fuck yourself, Hendrick.” I flicked the curtain back across.
“Rather fuck you, Viva,” he said too loudly from the other side, and my face flushed. I was so glad he couldn’t see it.
I managed to keep my voice even as I said, “I’m beginning to think you’d fuck anything with two legs.” His laughter was like velvet brushing softly over your skin. It made my flesh feel too tight, and I pretended it was with repulsion but everyone in this room knew it was arousal.
“You definitely have two legs. Two very nice ones, as we all saw when you were in that little black Chanel number.”
That dress had been gorgeous, but had way too many zeros at the end of the price tag for my mental health. I’d made Sampson tell the shop girls no more high end labels, and they’d all looked at me like I’d grown another head. Maybe they’d given me electroshock therapy back in that damn wellness center and this was all just a coma dream.
So no more Chanel or Versace or Louis Vuitton. They’d agreed, but Sampson had then told them to remove the tags of anything they brought in, so now I was standing in jeans that could cost a hundred bucks or six hundred, and I would never know.
The guys had insisted I needed a clubbing dress and a formal gown—I didn’t know what the fuck for, but even Otto had agreed. I’d already accepted three pairs of jeans, two pairs of tailored shorts, an entire array of pretty dresses and a puffer jacket that cost more than my car just by itself. Plus half a dozen tops, from sheer blouses to casual yet pricey t-shirts.
A hand reached through the curtain, and I was beginning to recognize the expensive manicure of the original personal shopper we’d met. “The gentlemen informed me that you might be going to the opera or out for dinner, and needed a dress to fit these occasions.” She thrust a dress at me. “This will be perfect. While it isn’t an evening gown, it is well made and will suit most occasions with the right accessories. I shall pick appropriate pieces.” She wasn’t asking. She was telling me.
I gritted my teeth and shucked on the dress. I had to admit, it was beautiful. Short enough to hit me midthigh, it draped around my body in a way that gave me more curves than I naturally had. It was simple, understated and… Holy shit, two and a half thousand dollars?
I must have screeched, because Sampson was suddenly there, whipping open the curtain. His eyes dipped to the dress, spending a long time on my legs, and then back to my face. “Want me to zip it?”
I shook my head furiously. “Not this dress.”
“Don’t you like it?”
I shook my head again. “It's beautiful, but it's too much.”
He had the fucking audacity to roll his eyes. “This is the dress then.” Then he shut the curtain. Fucking asshole.
I put my own clothes back on—comfortably from Target—and slid into my Converse. They kept bringing me street shoes, and I’d rejected them all. I was a Converse or die kinda girl.
Stepping out from behind the curtain, I frowned at the guys all sitting there on the plush couch. “I’m done. I won’t be an embarrassment anymore.”
Otto looked concerned, but Hendrick laughed. “Not sure that will be possible, Aviva. You radiate basic bitch.” I gave him the finger, and he just laughed harder. “It’s okay, we got you a selection of yoga pants and oversized sweatshirts too. You’ll still be comfortable, but now they’re designer, and it's an ‘aesthetic.’” He did little finger quotations around the word aesthetic like he thought it was crap, yet they were the ones who’d dragged me here to play dress-ups.
Sampson handed the assistant his credit card. “Ring it up and have it sent to the St. Regis. Also, she needs a suitcase and a travel wallet. Plus anything else you think she’ll need, I don’t care.”
The woman scurried off, her comrades grabbing the hanging rack and wheeling it out. There must have been ten thousand dollars worth of clothes on that rack.
All the fire left me as they rolled away and the door shut behind them. “It's too much,” I whispered. “You can’t buy me.”
Sampson swaggered over, his mouth a cocky smirk. “I’m not buying you, Good Girl. I’m making you a fantasy.” He leaned forward, getting in my personal space again, and fuck, he smelled so damn good it was distracting. “Don’t you want to be a fantasy?”
