Free His by Brenda Rothert Page B

your gown.”
    I’d like to tell him I’ll get ready when I please, but he’s right; I do need to get moving.
    “Your gown is hanging in your bathroom,” he says, his face buried in his phone.
    I step into the marble bathroom inside my bedroom and see that he hung a pretty but conservative dark gray dress on the door and left black heels and black lingerie on the counter.
    Fuck him. No one is choosing my underwear for me. I may not control much in my life right now, but I’m holding on to a few things. I go into the walk-in closet that houses my new clothes and choose nude lingerie, a sleeveless, dark wine-colored gown, a black wrap, and black strappy heels.
    I change into the gown and shoes and study my reflection in the mirror. I’m too thin, my collarbone showing prominently in this dress. I’ll just have to leave the wrap on at the event. My cheeks are still pink from the cold outside.
    There are butterflies in my stomach, and I kind of hate myself for it. I feel excited about wearing this beautiful gown and getting my hair and makeup done. I’ve never done anything like that.
    Maybe there’s a little Cinderella in me, after all, but only as far as the dress and shoes are concerned. I’m definitely not looking forward to an evening out with the closest thing in my life to Prince Charming. Andrew has been cold and distant since Saturday night.
    I’m on my way to his first-floor bedroom to meet the makeup and hair people when his voice makes me stop halfway down the stairs.
    “Well, where the hell was she?”
    “She didn’t say,” Dawson answers.
    “Who drove her?” Andrew demands.
    “I don’t know.”
    “Are you taking care of her at all? I told you to see to her needs.”
    There’s a pause on Dawson’s end of the conversation. He’s like a different person with Andrew. When he speaks, there’s none of the impatience he always shows for me.
    “I’ve been busy with your dry cleaning, delivering those reports, and—”
    Andrew cuts him off. “Don’t give me your bullshit excuses. Can I rely on you or not?”
    “Of course.”
    I try to walk loudly down the stairs, and I clear my throat as I walk into the living room.
    “Quinn,” Andrew says, looking startled. “Is everything okay?”
    “Of course.”
    “That dress is not going to work,” Dawson says with a roll of his eyes.
    Andrew cuts him down with a look. “She looks perfect.” He turns back to me. “Where were you today?”
    “The library.”
    His eyes widen with surprise. “The library? But I have a private library here.”
    “Well, I like the public one,” I say with a shrug. “Your books are mostly nonfiction.”
    “How did you get there? Did you take a cab? I have a driver you can use anytime.”
    “I walked.”
    His lips part with surprise. Dawson cringes.
    “You walked?” Andrew booms. “In the dead of winter? Through the Meatpacking District?”
    I have to hold back a laugh. “I’ve been in far worse places, you know. And I had my knife.”
    “You don’t have to walk everywhere and carry that damn knife anymore,” Andrew says. “If you need something, just say so.”
    “I don’t.”
    He rubs a hand down his face, looking frustrated. “Let Roy drive you. Can you at least do that?”
    “I like walking.”
    “Use the treadmill in my gym.”
    “It’s not the same. I miss the sounds and smells of the city.”
    He wrinkles his face in confusion. “You like the smell of car exhaust?”
    “I’m used to it.”
    “You need to get used to being provided for.”
    I meet his gaze defiantly. “Don’t make yourself out like some benefactor. We both know why I’m here. The only one providing for me is me .”
    A tense silence hangs in the air. We’re staring each other down, both refusing to look away. I see Dawson edge out of the room from the corner of my eye.
    We’re alone now, and Andrew walks toward me purposefully. My hand instinctively goes to my thigh, though there’s nothing there but the soft sheen