Running from hell isnʼt easy. Especially when thereʼs someone dragging you back down into it.
Belligerent, brash and always in shades of black, Freya is hardly a lady. Hidden away by her father, sheʼs lived a normal life despite being born into the...
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I KNOW THAT YOU SHOULD never think rudely of the dead, but it’s hard for me to conjure up much pity for Salvatore Costa. He humiliated me in more ways than one. Three days after the ball, Giulia’s helping me put together my outfit for the funeral.
“I’m thinking Audrey Hepburn from Breakfast at Tiffany’s,” I mumble, as I ask her to do my hair up fifties style. I have the entire outfit down to a T, even with the black elbow length gloves and the black shades.
Giulia pulls and tugs at my hair like she’s making dough, but surprisingly, she knows what she’s doing, because it doesn’t hurt. “I’m going to get him to pay you more,” I say, “You technically aren’t supposed to be my hairstylist.”
“Mr Costa pays me enough, no?” she says, “Too much.”
I consider that for a moment.
When she’s done, I look at my reflection in the mirror. I only had to show Giulia a picture of Audrey for her to get the hairstyle on point. I have about three hundred bobby pins in my hair, but it looks good. Theatrical.
My makeup is minimal — just a nude lip with a little eyeliner. My body is covered by a Givenchy sheath black dress made of Italian silk. Sleeveless and floor-length, it’s a replica of the one from the movie. The dress is chaste, but with the pearls, the gloves, the shades, and the hair, the costume is scathing. It’s satirical— considering that Audrey Hepburn was an escort in the movie.
I stuff my gloves and my sunglasses in a purse, sauntering out of my room in the pair of black kitten heels that were originally meant for me, heading for the lounge to show my future husband my outfit.
I’m to call out oh dear husband, when I notice Torren sitting on the couch, his head down. My heart stutters to a stop.
The past few days, he’s been busy with the funeral arrangements, and I was more than happy to simply stay out of his way. I didn’t think he was close to his father, so it was justifiable that he didn’t show much emotion after hearing the news.
But now, he looks . . . tired.
I take a step closer to him, the plush carpet masking the sound of my heels. Even though I’m quiet, he knows I’m here. And he isn’t budging from his spot on the couch or picking up his head to glance my way.
I take another step closer, and then another, until I’m right in front of him.
He still doesn’t move.
I never considered that no matter how horrible, Salvatore Costa was his father, and he might be mourning in his own way. Or that he might be mourning the father he never had.
I’m out of my depth. This was meant to be a moment where I obnoxiously flaunted my outfit, after which he would casted me derisive look, and then we’d leave the apartment with him walking so fast that Iʼd have to run to keep up with him.
