"I must have had more wine than I thought..." I continue staring at the statue, trying to remember more than just the dream.
Josh called, yelling and accusing me of stealing the statue. Something I know I didn't do but... somehow Sentinel was in my purse.
Not surprisingly my dinner was cold when I got to it. But that was fine, since I had lost my appetite. At least for food...
Instead I decided to have a dinner made of the more liquid variety. But I swear I only had one glass...
Maybe two...
And after?
Nothing...
The rest of the night is completely, utterly, blank.
I don't remember coming to bed, let alone changing into pajamas. Nor bringing the statue to my room. Why would I? I'm a hundred percent sure I left Sentinel in my purse so I wouldn't forget it, when I go to the party.
A shiver works its way down my spine at just thinking of what Josh will do if I show up without it. No, there's no way I would risk that.
Sighing, I roll over, slowly pushing my body off the bed. A nice hot shower calling my name.
I continue to ignore my phone as it dings again, knowing it'll be another demanding rant from Josh. After reading the first three I decided it was better to ignore the messages than to try and respond.
So, instead I'm standing here, in front of the mirror, begging my hair to dry faster.
Everything needs to be perfect.
I can't afford to make any mistakes.
My hair has to be done up in the latest style, held together with the strongest of sprays because, heaven forbid, a single strand comes loose.
Makeup must be on point. Bold but not too bold. Demure yet alluring.
My entire appearance must be without a single flaw. I must be the perfect date. The very definition of a trophy wife. Seen but not heard while simultaneously drawing jealous men and potential clients alike to Josh's side.
So, here I stand, in nothing but a towel as I scowl at my reflection while my arm is quickly becoming dead weight from holding up the hair dryer. The latest Vogue magazine is propped against the mirror, held in place by a bottle of lotion on one page and a bottle of body spray on the other.
Meanwhile my phone dings with another message.
Doubt starts to creep in, as I begin pinning up my hair. *What if the venue changed and he's just letting me know?*
Surely showing up late, even fashionably late, would be worse than not showing up at all.
Or maybe it's just another message, literally screaming at me in all caps, about how manipulative I am. How I'm just using him to gain favors and make my way up the corporate ladder. That I'm nothing more than a whore and will never amount to anything more than a dirty slut who will always be begging for scraps.
I wish they made an app that would read these messages out loud. Then I wouldn't have to waste time reading them.
Surely the worst news possible would sound better when spoken by some hot, random stranger. Maybe in a deep, exotic voice?
As I begin pinning my hair, a deep, masculine voice whispers in my mind. The phantom memory sparking echoes of a night where my body was thoroughly worshiped by a shadowed lover. A night of passion that I know had never happened and yet some part of my soul screams that it had.
The only thing I'm sure of? Two whispered words:
Little dove...
Everything else is a blur, my mind obsessively focusing on those words as I finish getting ready.
Smokey cat eye on point- check.