There was a man standing at my door, giving me a creepy grin and holding a pink paper box. It was the lingerie mystery box that had gone viral online the night before.
His leering, greasy gaze mixed with a disturbing, perverted look that seemed like it could pierce through my skin.
I rushed home, almost running and locked all the doors and windows, pulling the curtains shut tight. Then, in the suffocating darkness of the room, I slumped onto the floor.
My phone buzzed. It was Victor.
“Abby’s family’s hosting a welcome dinner for her. She wants you there. I’ll pick you up in 30 minutes.”
He didn’t ask where I was, nor did he wait for my response.
As always, it was an order. After delivering his message, he hung up. I swallowed my frustration and turned to finish packing.
Half an hour later, I received an invitation from the French National Ballet.
“Ms. Paston, although you’ve declined our invitation several times, your aerial dance performance was truly breathtaking. We’d like to extend another offer. Would you consider joining our troupe?”
The voice on the other end was soft yet carried a strength that seemed to pulse through my veins.
I wiped away my tears and responded with conviction, “I accept!”
Victor arrived soon after. When he saw me packing without makeup or fuss, he nodded with approval.
“We just got engaged, so there’s no rush to move into the Whyttons' place. We’ll have the servants take care of it when the time comes. Don’t worry, everyone knows the mystery box thing was just a prank. My parents won’t make a fuss about it.”
Victor pulled out a gift box tied with a delicate ribbon.
“Abby picked out a dress for you. Try it on, see if it fits.”
The dress was a low-cut, backless gown with a slit running all the way up to my thigh. It didn’t look like an evening dress. It looked more like… lingerie.
Victor’s fingers brushed behind my ear as he expertly started undoing my clothes.
I shoved his hand away in disgust. “Victor, my private photos and videos are being sold like crazy and you still call this a prank? Tell me, are you humiliating me, or are you humiliating yourself?”
His expression didn’t change, but in my mind, I could still hear the conversation I had overheard at the club.
“Mr. Whytton, those private photos came from you. How do you plan on explaining that to Faith?”
Before Victor could respond, Abigail’s sweet, teasing voice came through the speakerphone.