The red, leather skirt was too short, and the black mesh top and silk tank underneath too revealing. A small package and two boxes lay next to the outfit. Inside the package was a pair of black fishnet hose and within the largest box, a platinum blonde wig. The smaller box contained every kind of make-up fathomable. Under the wig were specific instructions on how he wanted it styled and how he wanted her make-up to be applied.

The next note, hidden inside the pantyhose, delivered the bad news.

Wait for me in the hotel lounge in exactly one hour.

-V.

Her insides roiled with disgust and anger. A damned prostitute. That’s what he wanted her to look like. A hooker. Who the hell else would wear this get up? No respectable woman would wear an outfit like this. Not even to a night club. She should know. She had done plenty of unrespectable things in her life, including picking up men at a bar for one-night stands and engaging in less than safe behaviors. And accepting Mr. Black’s initial offer. But not once had she ever worn anything so trashy.

She would totally wear something like this for a night in, to role play or get kinky, but to be seen in public like this? What if someone she knew saw her?

She tossed the wig aside and plopped down onto the bed. Irritated, she swept the clothing aside roughly and crossed her arms over her chest. This was such BS.

Only a second later, her phone chirped.

MrBlack: Don’t be late.

Of course she wouldn’t be late. She hadn’t been late yet, had she? She was following his damned rules.

Quickly, she showered and stiffly, she dressed; going about the tasks as if she was watching herself from above. Emotionless. Robotic. Unfeeling.

Walking back into the bathroom to put on the wig, she was struck with how uncomfortable she was. The leather squeaked against her bottom, the fishnet on her thighs itched, and the mesh top that sat mid-navel scratched against her skin. She tugged the skirt down, but it was pointless. This was as good as it was going to get.

Following the directions that were included with the wig, she placed the thin hairnet on her head first, and then the wig. She poked and stabbed at it with a comb, ratting the ends as per Victor’s instructions. When she stepped back, something on the floor caught her eye.

A price tag from the wig had fallen out that read $2,432.00. She gasped. Who the hell paid that kind of money for something that would only be worn once? How much disposable income did Victor have? She knew he owned a lot of property, but she had no idea he was that wealthy. With that kind of money, he could have any woman he wanted so why was he bothering with her?

Because she was pliable. And she was playing right into his hands again by doing as she was told. As she stood, staring at the strange, blonde version of herself in the mirror, sadness filled her gut. All the promises she had made to herself had been broken. Not just the one about never allowing Victor back into her life, but the promises she had made as a young girl and young adult. The one about never allowing anyone to change who she was. The one about never settling for anything less than true love. She had done those things with Patrick and with Nate, and now she was doing it again with Victor. Over and over, she kept repeating the same mistakes. When would she learn? Would she ever learn?

She wasn’t strong. She wasn’t resilient. She was Chapter Eight.

Blinking back the tears that had gathered on her lashes, she slammed her hand onto the counter and cursed herself.

Fuck that.

She was strong. She was resilient. And yes, she was Chapter Eight, but Chapter Eight was the very one who was making Mr. Black play by a whole new set of rules. She was the Chapter who he had come back to because she had walked away.

Mr. Black was not going to break her. Maybe she would feel differently later, but for right now, she wasn’t going to give into that sinking feeling.

She reached for the make-up and applied it liberally. Her foundation was smeared on heavier than she would normally wear it, her cheeks pinker, her lips redder, her lids caked in glittering blue eye shadow, and her lashes covered with gobs of mascara. If Mr. Black wanted trashy, then she would give it to him.

She slipped on the only thing in the ensemble worth keeping - a pair of Louboutin gold studded, python, peep toe platforms. They too carried a hefty price tag. It seemed Mr. Black had not only a taste for the sleazy, but for the extravagant.

She rode the elevator down to the lobby with a lump in her throat. The quick up and down looks and the pucker of women’s mouths didn’t go unnoticed. Like a good pliable girl, she swallowed the pill of degradation Mr. Black had handed her and walked to the lounge, ignoring the judgmental stares she was attracting.

Seated at the bar, she ordered a strong drink. She would need one if she was going to sit there any longer than a few minutes.

Thirty minutes passed, every second ticking by slowly. She kept her eyes trained on her second drink the entire time and pretended the men’s whispers next to her weren’t about what they thought her profession was.

“Can I get you another drink?” The unfamiliar voice next to her was rich with a thick lilting accent.

She kept her eyes forward. “I’m good.”

“Are you now?” He moistened his lips. “How good are you?”

The man’s voice oozed sexual overtones and made her want to bolt from the hotel, but she couldn’t. Not in the middle of a winter afternoon the way she was dressed. All she could do was sit there, red-faced, humiliated, acting as if she didn’t hear his suggestive question.

Hot breath on her ear made her shiver with disgust. “How much, Sweetie?”

The taste of bile and rum made her swallow loudly. “More than you can afford,” she finally found the courage to face him.

The dark-haired man wearing a tailored suit chuckled and sipped on his drink. “I doubt it,” he smiled amiably as if unaffected.

The bartender slid a note across the bar toward her.

Wait for me in the room.

-V.

Elsa rolled her eyes and climbed off the stool. Always waiting. That’s all this damned game was - a waiting game. Waiting to find out her next punishment; waiting to learn his secrets; waiting until the day her heart was shredded… Nothing but fucking waiting.

She marched toward the elevator and punched the button when a woman’s snobbish whisper was heard next to her.

“Nice look. Westtown Road is on the other side of town.”

The woman, referring to the seedy part of Richmond where prostitution was commonplace, didn’t even have the nerve to look Elsa in the eyes when she made the shitty statement. By the look on her pompous face, she probably didn’t know the first thing about good sex or how to pleasure a man.

Irritated with the bitch’s presumptuousness and the sudden urge to thrust her spiked heel down the woman’s throat, Elsa shot back. “You don’t know the first thing about me Little Miss Missionary Position, so take that condescending tone and shove it up your ass,” she whisper yelled as she climbed onto the elevator.

The woman’s face paled and she blinked rapidly, too stunned to move or respond. Just before the doors closed, Elsa flipped her the middle finger.

With her heart beating rapidly against her ribcage, she inhaled deeply and closed her eyes. She needed to get her shit together before facing Mr. Black.

Entering the room, she found it empty. Music was playing on a nearby Bluetooth stereo that looked out of place, and there was a new set of instructions lying on the bed next to a black satin scarf. He was close. Of course he was. But she hadn’t seen him in the bar. Not that she looked all that closely. She was too damned mortified.