Total pages in book: 123
Estimated words: 119694 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 598(@200wpm)___ 479(@250wpm)___ 399(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 119694 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 598(@200wpm)___ 479(@250wpm)___ 399(@300wpm)
I just have to find a way to do it.
I pair the pretty red dress with a set of walking boots from the lower shelf—they’re made of soft leather with sturdy soles but they’re somehow still elegant. When I lace them up and glance at my reflection again, I barely recognize myself. I don’t look like the miserable wage-slave I’ve been all my adult life at all. Instead a pretty, confident woman stares back at me. She even has a sparkle in her eye, as though she’s looking forward to the day.
Is this what it feels like to wear clothes designed by someone who actually likes women shaped like me? I wonder. I’ve always had the sneaking suspicion that whoever designs clothes for plus-sized stores like Lane Bryant actually hates curvy women. Why else would they make the clothes they do—and then expect us to buy them?
The thought sticks with me as I feed Mr. Mittens and then turn toward the door, ready to go find Hanna. But just then, there’s a knock on the bedroom door.
“Come in,” I call.
The door opens and Hanna steps inside.
For a second, I just stare.
She looks…radiant. Her crumpled scrubs are gone and she’s wearing an emerald dress that hugs her curves without squeezing them, the fabric falling perfectly over her hips. The color makes her auburn curls glow, and her green eyes look brighter than usual. Even her posture seems different—more relaxed, more confident.
“Wow,” I say. “You look amazing.”
She snorts.
“You should talk. I almost didn’t recognize you.”
I grin and do a little twirl so the skirt of my dress flares out.
“You like? The clothes are really nice here.”
“Yes—they gave me several choices and all of them looked good on me,” Hanna gushes. She sighs. “I wish I could take some of them home—they’re nicer than anything I could buy back home.”
“I was just thinking that same thing—shopping as a curvy woman is always such a nightmare,” I say.
“Oh God,” Hanna says. “Don’t remind me.”
“I swear,” I continue, “Every time I go into a plus-sized store, it feels like the designer secretly hates curvy women.”
Hanna laughs.
“Yes! Like, how can we punish them for having hips?”
“Exactly!” I say. “Why do they always think we want crop tops and short sleeves? And ruffles. So many ruffles.”
“The ruffles!” Hanna groans. “Like, this shirt would have been fine if you hadn’t added a flounce the size of a small child to the sleeves.”
“And what is it with weird cutouts?” I add. “Or slogans? I don’t need my shirt to say ‘Curvy and Proud’ in hot pink glitter. I just want it to fit.”
She nods emphatically.
“It’s like whoever designs those clothes thinks we’re either clowns or toddlers.”
I glance down at my dress again, smoothing a hand over the fabric.
“Whoever is designing these clothes… they get it. They actually understand how a curvy body works. Everything I’ve worn since I got here has been flattering without being weird.”
“I haven’t been here long, but same,” Hanna says, nodding. She does a little twirl of her own. “I put this on and didn’t feel like I needed to apologize for my body. Do you think it’s because like you said—they love curvy women here?”
“Could be,” I say thoughtfully. “Maybe—
But just then, there’s another knock at the door.
The maid from yesterday—hair neatly pinned, expression polite and attentive—steps inside and dips into a small curtsy.
“If it please you, my Queen,” she says, her accent lilting faintly, “Lord Lucian ‘as instructed me to lead you to the breakfast nook, so ‘e ‘as.”
Hanna’s eyebrows shoot up.
“This place has a breakfast nook?”
I laugh.
“I know, right? I thought the same thing. But apparently it does.”
The maid smiles.
“This way, if you please.”
We follow her into the hallway, our footsteps muffled by the thick carpets. I keep my eyes forward, deliberately not looking at one particular closed door—the one that leads to the dungeon playroom. I’ve been thinking about how much I enjoy being with Lucian and how I might almost be falling for him…but I can’t forget that if I stayed, that room would doubtless figure heavily in my future.
The maid leads us into a cozy room that feels more like a private tea parlor than part of a towering gothic fortress. There’s another fireplace here, smaller but cheerful, and a round table set with china and silver.
Golden-red sunlight filters in through the tall windows, softened by sheer curtains. It looks kind of like sunset but, I know it’s closer to morning. Maybe it’s just due to the sun here in the Shadow Realm. Maybe it’s not the same one we have in the Human world—which is really weird to think about, so I push it to the back of my mind.
Hanna and I take our seats just as the maid returns with breakfast.
The scents alone make my stomach growl, and I realize I’m really hungry—the feast with Lucian and the Necro Don last night seems like a long time ago.