They say the mirror never lies.
I'm stunned by the reflection I see before me. I'm a bit thick and bootylicious, and I'd kill whoever calls me fat. I turn aside and squeeze up the plump boobs that tortured me while growing up, only to realize some women pay a good fortune to have silicone implants and so I should be grateful instead.
Honestly, body acceptance is an odyssey for some of us.
I'm not the supermodel or magazine cover type of woman, but I'm slowly learning to embrace my curvy body as it is after so many years of feeling shitty for not being size zero. Lips painted in red, I fix the waves of my dusky brown auburn hair falling below my shoulders, a fair combination to my so-called incorrigible, hazelnut eyes.
"Done." I'm anxious, my tummy tight in knots whenever I think of him.
As I sprinkle that fancy Miss Dior perfume, I begin wondering why Mr. Strange gave it to me. I find it rather offensive. Do I smell bad? What's wrong with my signature vanilla and musk fragrance that I adore so much? I huff while rolling my eyes hysterically.
I'm a Dominant, Miss Lincoln. I love things done my way and that you shouldn't forget, by all means.
"Yeah right," I breathe, recalling the nerve-wracking stuff he's told me about himself. "You can do this, Ara." I'm staring at my reflection for the last time, sighing heavily like a soldier ready to embrace the battlefield.
Hurriedly I grab my black trench coat and slip it on, eager to run off. The last thing I need is for my siblings to see the figure-hugging red dress I'm wearing inside. Jake won't think twice about becoming a detective on the kind of job I'm doing tonight and I'm not ready for another entry in my clandestine jar and lies and secrets.
I'm a waitress and it's what they need to know, even if it's not rightly so.
Submitting myself to some New York business magnate is not an occupation I'd want anyone to know—absolutely anyone—especially my family. It's my innermost secret, and I'm going to act on it accordingly. It is, after all, the mutual agreement between Mr. Castle and me that no one is to know about this affair.
"Aw, you look pretty, Ara," Isla tells me when I step out. She's having pizza, the TV on with her Nickelodeon shows making a ruckus. "Are you going to the party?" She grins up at me.
"Thanks, baby. No, not a party exactly. I'll be working," I answer, partly lying.
I sense more lies coming along the way.
When will they stop?
Jake gives me a judicial look, but he says nothing. He bites on his pizza slice, pretending to be busy with his mobile.
Not bad. I can pull this off.
"Don't forget to brush your teeth, Isla." I face my little sister, who gives me a nodded affirmation. "And Jake, make sure you close the doors, switch the—"
"I got it. Aren't you getting late?" Jake interrupts, and I quickly glance at the wall clock.
6:45 p.m. Shit! I can't be late.
With my handbag on my shoulder, I stalk out immediately. Although I live in the largest well-planned community in Las Vegas, Downtown Summerlin, my neighbourhood is a bit of a cookie-cutter when it comes to privacy.
The blocks are built so privately with amenities like balconies and private floor plans, but the nosy Mrs-whatever and peeping Toms seldom miss the prying chance through their windows just to see who brought who and other details that are of no concern to them.
A sleek black Mercedes is waiting outside, hauled right in front of the building. A crispy mid-autumn breeze blows my hair dramatically, and it's slowly getting dark. Smiling, pulling a lungful of air, I use my hand to keep my hair still. My heart is racing out of control as I approach the car, too many nerves wrecking me up.
Chill out, Ara. You can do this.
The driver, a tall guy in a neat black suit, gets out of the car to regard me. He's a man of a few words, medium but fit, slightly bald on top of his head, with a prominent military disposition of discipline and order.
He reminds me of Jason Stathan.
"Hi," I greet casually, for he's been driving me for a week now.
"Hello." His reverent smile doesn't help the fireflies in my belly when he opens the back door for me. I want to go in, and I also want to run away. "Ma'am?" he calls to demand my decision.
Get moving, bicht! No backing out!
I smile curtly at him and dive into the car. It takes a minute or two until we're on the road to the Imperial Palace Hotel. Inside, I remove the ankle boots and put on the new elegant heels I'm required to wear. I think I'm ready now—ready for the unknown.
I shut my eyes fleetingly, trying my best to keep calm. Am I scared? I guess I am. I don't know what's waiting for me tonight, and I have no idea what the person I'm meeting looks like. Foolish, I know. Risky even.
What if Mr. Castle is an old man I wouldn't even wish to kiss? A jutting belly full of beer and burgers comes to mind, and then an oversized suit on a man with a very boring smile.
No, Ara, stop! I blink the thoughts away and drop my head to my left, leaning onto the windshield exhausted. But I keep thinking of him, envisaging him.
He sounds young on the phone, with a voice rife with life and intelligence, deep and decorous, sexy even, so he can't be that old. No, he has to be a young man in his thirties or something.
Right?
I sigh heavily. Las Vegas strip shines brighter than Christmas night, with every building and billboard emanating colorful lights that can take one's mind miles away with their charming effect. But I'm far from being charmed right now.
I'm dreading it.
"We're here," Mr. Black suit announces, and I think he's repeated that once or twice given the fact that he's already at the door.
"Oh, sorry." I gather my bag, and he smoothly holds the door open for me a few seconds later. "Thanks." I smile tightly and fix my coat once I'm out.
Okay, with these diamond-encrusted heels befitting a royal, I feel very fancy. No, I do look fancy and it's a catalyst for the burst of nerves in my belly.
"Have a good evening, ma'am," the driver whispers and I nod in response.
A tall, gigantic neo-classic building is right before me. Imperial Palace Hotel and Casino are boldly shimmering high above. I walk through the swirling glass doors and into the lobby. My head is on the clouds and faster is the pace of my heartbeat. I have the key card to the suite so I head straight for the see-through glass elevator.
In a short moment, I'm at my final destination—the presidential suite. I swipe the card and open the door cautiously. Is he inside? It's the question I've been having throughout the way, but to my utter disappointment, the room is bathed with quiet and darkness until I turn the lights on.
I doubt he's here. Everything is as I left it a few hours ago, except for the strong scent of red roses lying on the table, a bottle of Cristal in the ice bucket, and two glasses. Does this mean he was here? I slowly drop my bag on the sofa, somehow intrigued.
Restless, I grab the beautiful bouquet of roses and sniff them gently, recalling almost nothing about ever receiving flowers from a man. Did I get one during high school prom? Maybe I did. But the boyfriend I had, Richard, was a jerk who didn't even bother with little things.
I somehow used to envy girls who received flowers and chocolates on Valentine's and their birthdays no matter how cliche it sounds in this modern world. So I smile, trying for once to imagine the mundane feeling of faux romance read in books, and it sends a tingle over the back of my neck.
But heck, I'm not some character in Mills and Boons Romance.
My phone rings and I nearly jump. "Damn it!" I curse out loud, putting the roses down.
It's him.
I frown, annoyed already by the fact that he's calling again instead of being here. Is he kidding me?
"I thought you'd be here. It's what we agreed!" My voice turns harsh and I'm not intending to mask my anger.
"And I shall keep my word," he answers calmly, very calmly.
As always, I roll my eyes. "When? You certainly said you love punctuality if my memory serves me well!"
"And you're five minutes late, Miss Lincoln," he retorts.
"Oh, for crying out loud! We're in Vegas, dude! Do you think it's Mongolia or—" I start but shut my mouth immediately. Fuck! He's silent, waiting for me to proceed. "I mean, I'm sorry that I'm late," I breathe.
Yeah, right. Fake it till you make it.
"Go to the bedroom, Miss Lincoln," he orders, his voice as arctic as the northern pole. I stand still, stupefied. "Now," he snaps coolly.
I comply, breathing unevenly. What is he going to do to me? My head starts spinning as soon as I reach the bedroom. It's also as I left it—too clean, too neat, utterly untouched.
"Can you see what's on the bed, Miss Lincoln?" he asks in baritone.
"Um..." I get closer, and finally, I grasp something. "Yes, I see it." I grab a red piece of fabric.
"What do you see?" he asks.
"A silky or satin scarf, I guess?" I inspect it closely.
"It's a blindfold, Miss Lincoln. Put it on," he instructs.