Total pages in book: 164
Estimated words: 156728 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 784(@200wpm)___ 627(@250wpm)___ 522(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 156728 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 784(@200wpm)___ 627(@250wpm)___ 522(@300wpm)
Daisy rubbed her forehead. No part of her would have chosen this, so as much as they pretended there was a choice, there wasn’t. “This is coercion.”
“I just don’t want to be...” Daisy couldn’t find the words.
“Everything here is a choice. Your choice. Always.” She looked at the intercom on the wall. “One call and it can all be over. But only you can decide what sacrifices you’re willing to make.”
Damon cleared his throat softly. “If it helps, I’ve been through this myself. Multiple times. I can give you tips for making it easier.”
Daisy stared at him. “Were you a tribute?”
“Three years ago.” He smiled. “Now, I volunteer because I want to help others.”
“And this is what you chose?”
He smiled. “It’s a very vulnerable moment. The key is to relax your breathing. Slow and deep. Focus on a memory or a song. It’s over in no time.”
Daisy looked between them. Was she being ridiculous? A few minutes of discomfort or turn away a million pounds? When she looked at that, she knew she was going to go through with it. Resigned, she let out a sigh. “Fine.”
“Trust me, you’ll be fine,” Damon said.
Trust no one.
Aunt V moved to the door. “I’ll leave you to it.”
In the end, Damon was right. It was over quickly. Mortifying, yes. Dehumanizing in ways she hadn’t imagined, absolutely. But his breathing tips helped so much that she thanked him when it was over.
“You did beautifully,” he said, tidying the area for the next tribute. “The hardest part is over. Everything from here is just pampering.”
“Thank God.”
Lunch arrived between treatments, lighter fare served on delicate china in a room where the other tributes gathered in various stages of transformation. The women who’d arrived looking weathered and worn now resembled plucked chickens, all raw skin and exposed vulnerability, their hair wrapped in foils or twisted in curlers, their faces scrubbed clean.
“Attention, my little does.” Aunt V’s voice cut through the quiet murmur. “A reminder, as we continue, the safe word is Timber. If at any point tonight you feel unsafe, say that word, and everything will stop. What is the safe word?”
“Timber,” the room chorused.
“Excellent. After lunch, we’re going to practice posture. Eat up. We want you nice and strong for this evening.”
The afternoon blurred into a montage of sensation. The massage was her favorite. No one had ever touched her in such a way, so steadily devoted to her comfort. She was so relaxed when it was over that she fell asleep in the middle of her facial.
After the spa, she was delivered back to the salon where they transformed Daisy’s hair with scissors and color and heat, a full metamorphosis that turned her dull, limp strands into sleek, glossy waves.
Her body felt foreign, smooth and soft in ways it had never been. They shaped and painted her nails in a delicate shell pink adorned with little crystals in the corner. Once the polish dried, they massaged her hands and feet. The decadence overwhelmed her, putting her into a trance that made the world fuzzy and soft, as if she were moving through a cloud.
Is this what rich people feel like all the time?
“What’s the safe word?” Aunt V asked throughout the day.
“Timber!” the tributes responded automatically as one.
“Perfect. Remember, no matter what happens tonight, you’re in control.”
Finally, impossibly, it was time to dress.
The lingerie came first. Daisy stood in a private room as a valet helped her into garments unlike anything she’d ever worn. A bra of delicate dove-grey lace with tiny pearls contoured her curves. An intricate garter belt fit her narrow waist, the silk tapes clipping elegantly to the lace trim of sheer, icy thigh highs that covered her skin like a soft mist. Rather than panties, she wore vintage silk tap pants with slits on the sides and soft satin ribbons tied at the hip.
Daisy’s lips parted in awe at her reflection. It was the most feminine she’d ever looked. “I don’t believe it.”
The valet smiled, her hands still adjusting straps and bows. “The color suits you perfectly.”
“I don’t even recognize myself.”
“Wait until you see it with your hair and makeup.”
She couldn’t imagine anything prettier than the reflection staring back at her. But the stylists shortly proved her wrong.
The stylist parted her hair to the side, sweeping back the front in a way that looked sleek and polished, but not tight. He gathered her hair to one side, sculpting sections into wide twists that rested on her nape, and slightly off center, behind her ear. It was romantic and refined, reminding her of vintage models from the early twentieth century.
Her makeup somehow illuminated her features without looking heavy or overdone. Soft, shimmering pearls and delicate champagne. Her lips wore the palest shade of pink beneath a touch of gloss, appearing almost nude.
“Wow,” she said, wondering if she’d ever be able to recreate such perfection.