Curse of Rose de Winter

Chapter 4

The story had been prepared. Dylan ran it through me, Vaughn cutting in at times. As Irene dressed me on the morning of the reunion their words repeated.

"If any money or property is ceased to you, you are to say you will return it to the head, Dylan de Winter..."

Irene had also gotten me a mourning dress now in fine fabric, thick yet smooth. I asked her where it was from and she said some Italian name.

"...or in the case property is not ceased, you may leave a will as long as you feign leaving the country or going overseas."

Irene buttoned my back buttons before adjusting my neckline made of surprisingly soft lace—it didn't itch. There was a white under gown inside. It was not visible, but helped absorb what would be my sweat in the humid weather. I sensed it was going to rain.

She pulled out a dark ribbon. I wondered if she'd put a brooch with a silhouette on it like people always thought nobles wore. Maybe I'll get one.

"We will leave you with half the inheritance guaranteed to you in money, but the land and mansion will stay in our family..."

Irene looked at me sternly before she brought up my long black hair into a fancy twisted braid pinned up. She brushed short baby hair back and mentioned something about my sharp widow's peak. She said it was similar to Dylan's.

"...and while I thank you for your help in this affair, I do request it stay between us three. You will not pull any tricks, or you can safely assume I'll have Vaughn...

"End it?" I was back to that night, in their office. Dylan had walk behind me, and I was too weak to turn around as he came close.

"—end you."

End you? Not 'end it'?

I was cold, and when his breathing was on my neck, I pulled back only to have his hands on my shoulders, firm.

"Don't worry, I'm only making a birthmark on your neck."

I remembered how they reacted the first time I came; they checked my neck.

"With what?" I whispered.

"Just ink. It will wash off, but a fair amount should stay until tomorrow. I do hope it becomes a natural looking mark."

I turned and saw that Dylan had a stamp pad, and with a finger painted black, he gently turned my head and moved his finger up and down my nape, making me instinctually shiver.

"Is it done?" I asked.

"It'll have to soak into your skin," he spoke, but his mouth was close to my left ear as I had my head turned and he was too focused on making a mark.

I held back my voice and allowed his touch. It was sensual but to him it meant nothing. Both the fear of his threat and giddiness at being completed as "Blanche" made me feel strange, as though there were insects crawling in my stomach.

"Now, tomorrow you'll have your hair put down and straightened, and Irene will have makeup on you. I suggest eyeliner—it'll draw them to your deep eyes. Don't forget the red lips and maybe," he finished and sighing, pulled back my head with a hand on my head. I was like a marionette as my head turned to him, "a black choker and a revealing neckline. Heels, and red earrings."

"All will be relayed to Irene," Vaughn said, and left the room. I realized he was more than a lawyer: Vaughn was Dylan's servant.

Dylan closed the stamp pad emotionally and placed it back on his study's big oaken desk.

"Can I know something?" I asked when the door closed.

"Is it about my mother again?"

"No, it's about you."