IMOGEN'S POV
I stormed back to my room, the anger and frustration boiling inside me. The door slammed shut behind me, and I leaned against it, my breath coming in short, harsh bursts. Biting my nails, I glanced at the dress hanging in the wardrobe. It was beautiful; there was no denying that, but it felt like a shackle, binding me to a world I despised.
I snatched the dress from its hanger and tossed it onto the bed. It was a modest yet elegant piece, perfect for a luncheon with the other women. The fabric was a soft, pale blue with delicate lace accents along the neckline and sleeves. It flowed gracefully, hinting at luxury without being ostentatious.
Undressing quickly, I stepped into the bathroom, letting the steam envelop me as I turned on the shower. The hot water pounded against my skin, washing away the remnants of sleep and the tension from the confrontation with Elijah. I scrubbed my body and hair, trying to clear my mind. After brushing my teeth and finishing my shower, I stood there for a moment, letting the water drip from my hair.
"This leaves a dent in my plans to see Isaac," I muttered to myself.
Wrapping a towel around myself, I walked back into the bedroom and slipped into the dress. It fit perfectly, the fabric cool against my skin. I sat down at the vanity, fixing my hair into a simple, elegant style. The emerald necklace lay glinting on the dresser, a beacon of defiance. I clasped it around my neck, its weight a comforting reminder of my resolve.
As I applied my lipstick, a knock sounded at the door. I didn't bother turning around. "Come in," I called out, my voice steady despite the turmoil inside me.
Elijah stepped into the room, dressed in a tailored suit that accentuated his sharp features. He looked every bit the part of the polished, powerful man he wanted the world to see.
"I'll be driving you to the society's meetup," he said, his tone leaving no room for argument.
I met his gaze in the mirror, my expression hardening. "Don't worry, I can get there myself. Just tell me the location."
In a swift motion, Elijah strode across the room and turned my dresser chair to face him. Our eyes locked, and the intensity in his gaze made my heart pound.
"I'm doing this to keep up appearances," he said, his voice low and dangerous. "It's high time you stop making things hard for me."
His eyes flickered to my neck, and he reached out to touch the emerald necklace. "Are you trying to spite me?" he asked, his voice barely a whisper.
I lifted my chin, maintaining eye contact. "I just thought the necklace matched the dress."
His hand tightened around the emerald, and he leaned closer. "Lose it and wear something else."
"No," I replied firmly, my voice steady despite the fear creeping in.
I knew it was stupid to do. But I found it hard to resist. Anger was the only reaction I seemed to elicit from the man, and it was starting to get addictive.
Elijah's expression darkened, and in a flash, his hand slammed into the mirror behind my head, shattering the glass. The noise made me flinch, my heart racing.
"Don't test me, Imogen," he hissed, his face inches from mine. "I beg you."
The raw desperation in his eyes terrified me, and I reached behind my neck to unclasp the necklace. The emerald fell into his hand, and he dropped it on the dresser before he stepped back, a satisfied smirk playing on his lips.
"You look much more presentable without that ugly thing," he said, his voice dripping with contempt. "I would prefer you not brand yourself as another man's whore while you're with my mother."
I took a deep breath, willing myself to remain composed. Slowly, I lifted my hand to my hair, giving it more volume as I tried to mask the trembling in my fingers. Elijah watched me, his eyes cold and calculating. I turned away from him and walked over to my closet, choosing a pair of black short heels that complemented the dress. The act of slipping them on provided a moment of normalcy in the chaos.
"I'm all set," I told Elijah, keeping my voice steady even though I was feeling a bit overwhelmed inside.
He nodded curtly and led the way out of the room. I followed, my mind racing with thoughts of Isaac and the plans that had been derailed. Elijah's presence beside me was a constant reminder of the tightrope I was walking.
We exited the house, the morning air crisp and filled with the sounds of the awakening city. Elijah's car, a sleek black sedan, was waiting in the driveway. He opened the passenger door for me, a gesture that felt more like a command than chivalry.
Once we were both inside, Elijah started the car and pulled out of the driveway. The silence between us was thick, and I couldn't help but break it.
"Where are we going?" I asked, my voice a careful blend of curiosity and defiance.
He glanced at me briefly, his expression unreadable. "The Velvet Spire," he replied.
The name sent a jolt through me. The Velvet Spire—the place Isaac and I were supposed to meet. My mind raced, trying to piece together the implications. Elijah was taking me to the same place I had planned to meet Isaac.
I tried to keep a straight face and glanced out of the window as the city whizzed by. The car ride was awkward, with so much unsaid that it felt like there was a wall between us, even thicker than the car's windows.
As we pulled up to the Velvet Spire, I felt a mix of dread and determination. Whatever was waiting for me inside, I was ready to face it. Elijah could try to control me, but he wouldn't crush my spirit. The car came to a stop, and I took a deep breath, getting myself ready for the subsequent showdown in this battle of plastic appearances.
"I'll take you inside," Elijah said, his tone leaving no room for argument.
"There's no need," I replied, trying to keep my voice steady. "You've kept up appearances." I reached for the seatbelt, but before I could unfasten it, Elijah's hand clamped down on my arm.
"I insist," he said, his grip firm and unyielding.
I nodded, suppressing a sigh. "Fine."
We exited the car together, the tension between us palpable. As we walked toward the entrance of the Velvet Spire, the familiar pang of dread tightened in my chest. The elegant façade of the restaurant loomed before us, its glass doors reflecting the bright morning sun.
The moment we stepped inside, a woman's voice called out to me. "Imogen!"
I turned to see who it was, and not too far away, I spotted my mother-in-law and a group of women, all impeccably dressed and exuding an air of superiority. Elijah muttered under his breath, "There they are," before taking my arm in his and guiding me towards them. The unexpected gesture left me stunned, but I followed his lead, my heart pounding.
As we approached the table where the Portland Women's Society was gathered, I plastered a polite smile on my face, ready to greet them. But then, I made eye contact with a woman sitting next to my mother-in-law. It was Deborah, my husband's mistress. The sight of her sitting there so comfortably, as if she belonged, made my blood run cold.
"Imogen, darling, so glad you could join us," my mother-in-law said, her voice dripping with false sweetness.
"Of course," I replied, managing to keep my voice steady. "It's a pleasure to be here."
Deborah's eyes met mine, a flicker of something—defiance, triumph—dancing in them. She gave me a small, knowing smile, one that sent a surge of anger and humiliation through me. I clenched my fists at my sides, fighting to maintain my composure.
Elijah squeezed my arm lightly, a reminder of his presence and the precarious balance I was supposed to maintain.
I looked at him, waiting to see his reaction, but there was nothing. He didn't react at all.