“The Vanguard board expects a certain aesthetic,” he would murmur, his thumb pressing into the base of my skull, forcing me to look at my reflection in the mirror. “We can’t have you looking bloated or undisciplined. You need to skip meals for a few days before the gala. Drink water. Take your vitamins. Do you understand, darling?”
I always nodded. I always understood. I knew exactly what happened when I didn’t comply. The “long talks” in his soundproofed home office, the deliberate, terrifying psychological deconstruction that left me weeping and begging for forgiveness for hours.
Tonight, I was wearing a restrictive, floor-length, backless ivory silk gown that he had specifically chosen. It was beautiful, heavy, and incredibly tight, designed to showcase a terrifyingly thin frame. More importantly, it had long, fitted lace sleeves that perfectly covered the faint, yellowing bruises on my upper arms—the physical receipts of our last “long talk.”
Julian kept a proprietary, possessive hand firmly pressed against the small of my back, guiding me through the crowd of well-wishers like a prized, fragile, incredibly expensive possession.
“Smile, darling,” Julian murmured, his breath hot against my ear as a photographer for a prominent society magazine approached us, flashbulb ready. His fingers dug slightly into my spine, a silent, painful reminder. “Don’t look so exhausted. Don’t ruin my night, Clara, or we’ll have a long talk when we get home.”
I forced a radiant, loving smile onto my face, turning toward the camera as the flash blinded me. My heart was hammering a frantic, terrifying rhythm against my ribs. I knew exactly what a “long talk” meant.
