CHAPTER 27: MELTING HEART

CHAPTER 27: MELTING HEART
Florence POV
Once the elevator doors chimed open, my thoughts were interrupted. It suddenly occurred to me that I had to step out—actually step into the hallway. My footsteps were swallowed completely by the plush carpet that covered the floor, and they continued to be muted until the Beta stopped me in front of a pair of double doors at the end of the hallway.
“This way,” he said. “Once you’re dressed and ready, you’ll be led to the dining area.”
He gave me a small pat on the shoulder.
“One more thing,” he added, his voice soft.
I stopped, just about to enter the doors, and turned to look at him.
“I know he might seem a little too much at times,” he said. “But you need to understand, that’s how he has to be. So long as you’re safe, because that’s what he wants—to keep you safe. Can you trust him on that? Can you trust us on that?”
I swallowed slowly, the sound almost audible, and gave him a small nod.
“I’ve just been having to make excuses,” I said honestly. “If I said I completely understand everything, I’d be lying.”
Of course, I had seen it before: strength masquerading as protection, placed at the forefront while control was maintained consistently. I was to be controlled, was I not? I wanted to ask, but the hopeful look in the Beta’s eyes was too positive to deflate.
“Thank you,” I settled on saying as I stepped into the room and quietly shut the door behind me.
It felt as though something was hanging between us—or, more accurately, between myself and everyone else. I was living in a different world, and perhaps, I had just stepped into one.
The suite was filled with dresses, to say the least, and people—smiling women who all stopped what they were doing as soon as I entered. Their surprised expressions seemed well-practiced, as though they’d been expecting Rose instead of me.
“She’s here,” one of them said.
She appeared to be speaking into a phone. Before I knew it, I was grabbed by the hand and pulled deeper into the room.
“A quick shower,” the stone-faced woman who had grabbed me said briskly.
The next thing I knew, I was led to a large bathroom, thrust into a waiting hot tub filled with steaming water and bubbles. I was scrubbed within an inch of my life, my hair washed thoroughly, and soon afterward—or at least what felt like days of activity—I was pulled out, towel-dried, and subjected to more ministrations.
My hair was pulled in various directions as I sat in a chair. The chair was suddenly turned so fast that I experienced a moment of vertigo. Amidst the dizziness, I caught sight of my reflection in the mirror, and my face filled with utter disbelief.
“It’s a work in progress,” said a kind voice beside me.
Strangely enough, it belonged to the person who had been pulling my hair non-stop. She had a pleasant face framed by bright orange-red curls, the literal definition of a ginger.
I chuckled nervously and shook my head. “Trust the process, huh?” I mumbled to myself.
“Fine,” I said, rolling my eyes, just as my hands were suddenly grabbed.
Within five minutes, I was overwhelmed by sensations. My feet were scraped to remove years of accumulated grime, my hands were filed down and adorned with delicate, comfortable nails, and my back was massaged with soothing lotion.
Every scrap of my soles made my toes curl—not out of pleasure, but from discomfort. I fought every urge to leap out of the chair and run.
“Sorry,” I heard several times. “It’s just that we’re pressed for time and can’t do everything separately.”
I heard that excuse at least twice. By the time I checked the clock, convinced time had slowed to a crawl, I discovered only two hours had passed.
Great, I thought to myself. Not only was my body overwhelmed, but my sense of time had completely betrayed me. What felt like an eternity had been just a few hours, yet it had stretched long enough to confuse me thoroughly.
Eventually, I was released from the so-called torture—beauty is pain, after all.
I was led to another chair, and while I expected another round of torment, I was relieved to find it was just makeup. The makeup process itself was lengthy but far less painful. During it, my hair was styled. Unfortunately, my eyes were half-closed for most of it, so I had no idea what I looked like.
“We’re done,” someone said.
The chair was turned slowly. I opened my eyes to find a stranger staring back at me from the mirror. My face looked slimmer, my lips fuller than usual, and my hair was an intricate arrangement of braids and curls.
“You look beautiful,” said the kind voice from earlier.
My hand was pulled, leading me to my dress.
The dress itself reminded me vaguely of one I had seen with Candice. It was a long evening gown, the bodice heavily encrusted with stones in a pattern resembling fire. The fiery design tapered at the waist, drawing the eye to the center.
Before I could object, I was dressed in the gown and led to the mirror again as my back was fastened.
The woman in the reflection didn’t look like me. Even if the makeup had made me unrecognizable, the dress solidified the transformation. She was beautiful—a goddess, to say the least.
The dress cinched my waist perfectly without making me feel uncomfortable. The soft fabric flowed elegantly from my waist to the floor, creating the illusion of wide, luxurious hips. It highlighted my curves in a way I had always felt insecure about but now found flattering.
Alpha Leonard , I thought. Whatever magic you claimed to wield, it was working. Slowly, I felt my
heart melting—and oh, it was melting far faster than I could comprehend.