Fine?
She looked … fine?
A word so aggressively neutral it might as well have come with a shrug. Was this some sort of political tactic? Downplay her, make her doubt her own beauty? To what end? What purpose would that serve his campaign? To make her more relatable?
Henry’s words from the day before came back to her on a loop. He’d made constant comments about how she was, essentially, ‘too much’ and how they would need to ‘tone her down’ to cater to mass appeal.
Was that what Finn was attempting to do?
Because she had clearly seen the proof of his desire when he’d been looking at her.
So instead of celebrating her beauty that he clearly appreciated, he wanted to make her question it, if not outright start to think less of herself?
The hurt that had started to pool in her chest began to churn and flow until it became a tsunami of rage.
How dare he make her doubt herself?
Him with his salt-slick smile and his manufactured personality.
Iris dropped her mug back down on the counter with a loud click before turning and striding back to the bedroom, slamming the door for good measure, before walking to the closet to pull on one of the many tops Henry had provided.
Not because she felt suddenly less beautiful, but because she no longer wanted Finn to notice it. He had no right.
This was good, she told herself as she buttoned thelong-sleeved top. She needed the reminder of why this marriage could not go on.
It wasn’t just the marriage she resented; it was the quiet reshaping of herself she hadn’t even noticed happening.
A little less shimmer. A little less sway in her step. A little more fabric, a little more resilience.
She hadn’t agreed to be edited.
And if she let this go, let them go on correcting her voice, her walk, her wardrobe, she wouldn’t be Iris anymore.
She’d be some shimmering shell of a woman she didn’t even recognize anymore.
She couldn’t allow that to happen.
By the time she made it out of the bedroom, Finn was gone, and Monty was looming over the cat with his beak spread wide.
“Monty!”
The pelican snapped his beak closed, turning with a guilty look. “Pure instinct, I assure you,” he said, lifting his head. “I am far too refined to actually eat a cat.”
“I’m not so sure of that,” she said. She scooped up the cat and hugged it to her chest. His little body started to vibrate, the sensation immediately calming her frayed nerves. “Where didhego?”
“Henry came to take him to the gym. But not before he left that for us,” Monty said, gesturing toward a stack of little square cases of plastic.
“What are they?”
“Documentaries. But not the ones about the tragic backstories and scandals of the elite. Oh, no. They’re documentaries about humans.”
“Humans?”
“Henry said he was concerned about your lack ofunderstanding of how the world works. So he brought these for us to watch. I’m sure they won’t be dry enough for us to choke on,” he mumbled. His gaze took her in. “Yes. That is much more appropriate. Even if it won’t make your fiancé pitch a tent like the cami did.”
“What does that mean?” Iris asked.
Monty cleared his throat a bit as he waddled over to the kitchen.