Now he didn't even want the cucumbers he used to love.
"Sorry. I didn't know your preferences."
I crouched down and started cleaning up the mess.
A shard of porcelain sliced my finger. Blood beaded up.
Anthony didn't even glance at it. He stepped over me and grabbed a bottle of Evian from the fridge.
"There's a banquet tonight. You're coming."
His tone was ice.
"With my current status, it's not appropriate—"
"What status?" He cut me off with a sneer. "A prostitute? Or Miss Sullivan?"
I had no answer.
"If you're going to be arm candy, act like it."
He tossed me a black gift box.
"Put this on. Don't embarrass me."
That afternoon, a stylist came to do my hair and makeup.
When I opened the box, I found a red, skintight spaghetti-strap dress.
There was barely any fabric. The entire back was bare, the slit climbing all the way to my upper thigh.
This was something a nightclub dancer would wear—not a gown for a business banquet.
But I had no right to refuse.
After putting it on, I stood before the mirror and lowered my eyes. The woman staring back looked no different from an antique on an auction block.
Eight o'clock that night. Harborview City's largest banquet hall.
I walked in on Anthony's arm.