And I wonder if he has blamed her for this situation. He probably has. He has always made it clear that I am my mother’s responsibility, my upbringing her job in life. Any failures of mine are also hers.
“Alexa, please.”
And I can’t refuse her, so I stand and walk to the bathroom, dousing my face with warm water and scrubbing away the trail of mascara left by my tears. When I return to the room, Madame Laurent has unwrapped one of the dresses and holds it out to me. It’s simple, made entirely from ivory silk, and it trails over her arm like water. It will do everything to emphasise my demure omega frame.
I let the two older women slip the dress over my body and twirl me around and around in front of the mirror until I’m so dizzy I hardly know which way is up and which way is down. Then they strip me and another dress is tugged over my head, then another and another.
“Do you have a favourite?” Madame Laurent asks me. I shrug my shoulders, avoiding my mother’s glare.
“They’re all lovely,” I say. “Beautiful,”
“And you look beautiful, Alexa,” my mother says.