Free Because You Are Mine Part V: Because I Said So by Beth Kery Page A

She approached Francesca, smiling.
    “Ian? What’s going on?” she asked, brows furrowed as she watched Margarite set down the wooden contraption and her handbag and whip the tape measure in her hand. She walked up close to a bewildered Francesca. Her eyes went wide in incredulity when the woman stretched the measure around her hips, then quickly moved it around her waist.
    “Lin Soong has an uncanny ability to guess people’s ready-to-wear clothing sizes, and she’s even a crack shot at foot sizes. She’s the one who ordered the clothing you wore last night, and she seemed up to her usual standards. However, I thought it’d be better to get more precise measurements for some tailored clothing,” Ian said casually from across the room. She looked up, aghast, when Margarite matter-of-factly stretched the tape measure around her breasts. Ian was in the process of stuffing some files into his briefcase, but paused when he saw her expression.
    “Ian, tell her to stop this,” she mumbled under her breath, as if muting her voice would lessen the likelihood of Margarite taking offense, forgetting the woman didn’t speak English.
    “Why?” Ian asked. “I want to make sure your new wardrobe fits you perfectly.”
    Margarite was retrieving the wooden contraption, which Francesca now realized was a foot-measurement device. She walked past the smiling woman, her expression strained, and approached Ian.
    “Stop this. I don’t want any new clothes,” she hissed, glancing back uncomfortably at a politely confused-looking Margarite.
    “I might want you to attend some events with me that require more formal attire,” he said, zipping his briefcase closed briskly.
    “I’m sorry. I guess I won’t be able to go if you don’t think my appearance is suitable.”
    He glanced up sharply at the tone of her voice. His nostrils flared slightly when he finally took note of her anger.
    Margarite made a query in French from across the room. Ian’s stare felt like it had weight, but Francesca held it determinedly. He walked past her and addressed Margarite rapidly in French. The woman nodded in understanding, smiled warmly at Ian, grabbed her purse, and took her leave.
    “Would you mind telling me what that was all about?” he asked her once he’d closed the door after a departing Margarite. His tone was cool, but his eyes gleamed with anger.
    “I’m sorry. It was a generous offer on your part. But I know what type of clothing you’d probably tell Margarite to buy or have made. I’m a graduate student, Ian. I can’t afford things like that.”
    “I know that. I’m purchasing them for you.”
    “I told you I wasn’t for sale.”
    “I told you that this sort of thing is the type of experience I can offer you,” he snapped back.
    “Well, I’m not interested in that ‘sort of thing.’”
    “I made it clear that this would be on my terms, Francesca, and you agreed. I’ll accept your stubbornness in small doses, but you go too far this time,” he said as he stalked toward her, clearly infuriated at her resistance.
    “No.
You
go too far. I spent almost my entire life having authority figures tell me my appearance was wrong and try to alter it. Do you really think I’m so stupid as to give you permission to start doing the same thing now? I am who I am. If you don’t want to be around me this way, I’m sorry,” she said, her voice shaking.
    He came to a halt. She wished he wouldn’t look at her with that laser stare of his that seemed to see so much. Tears unexpectedly filled her eyes. It hurt, for some reason, knowing that he’d prefer she was different. She knew that was irrational—he hadn’t said he wanted to alter
her
, just her clothes—but she couldn’t seem to prevent the swelling of emotion. They stood there in silence while she tried to contain it.
    “Never mind,” he said quietly after a moment while she stared blankly out the sun-filled terrace windows, her arms crossed beneath her breasts.