Better than me, at any rate.
***
I didn't contact her again until the day before our planned visit to my offices. Thankfully, I'd actually remembered to get her number this time. After some thought, I elected not to mention how I'd practically kicked her out of my house. A proactive apology would be nice, but it also had the potential to breed unnecessary awkwardness. Better to pretend it never happened. Hopefully, she'd do me the same courtesy.
After an hour or so, she responded to my text, just as coolly and nonchalantly as I could have hoped. Yes, we were still on. She wondered what she should wear.
Let me worry about that, I told her, pressing send before I had a chance to stop myself.
Shit, I really had to stop giving this woman orders. But I already had a plan in place, involving a boutique downtown that already had my Amex on file. They knew my tastes, and they knew how to make a woman look good in them. She'd be perfectly dressed for the part. I had to smile when I pictured her going to the door with a frown on her face, not expecting a package, only to find a beautifully wrapped box from a place she'd probably never dreamed of setting foot in.
This was my favorite gift to give a woman, and one I reserved for special occasions. In this case, of course, it wasn't so much a gift as a necessary expense for our facade. But of course, I'd let her keep it. I've always felt that a dress belongs to its owner in some special way. It always carries the memory of her, no matter what happens.
I half-expected a call or a text, the next morning. What the hell? I worried that she hadn't gotten the package, that something had been mixed up along the way. The boutique didn't open for another hour and a half, but I tried calling anyway, and the owner answered on the first ring.
"Good morning, Mr. Chase," she said, smoothly. "How can I help you?"
"I just wanted to make sure that delivery went through," I said. "Haven't heard anything from the recipient."
"It certainly did, Mr. Chase. She even signed for it. Would you like to talk to the courier?"
"No, thanks, that won't be necessary." I sighed. "I appreciate it."
"Anytime, Mr. Chase."
So. Either I'd pissed Jenna off, or she was just going the route of quiet submission to my will. Damn it.
Or maybe she's just being polite, and you're being ridiculously melodramatic.
No, polite would be thank you. And it wasn't a gift, not really. It was an order, tied up with a pretty bow, but an order all the same. As much as I tried to act like a normal person, I couldn't help slipping into this role. Especially when it came to her.
It was odd. With Daria, with all the others, I always felt like I was wearing a mask. Every action I took as their Dominant, as their would-be Head of Household, was carefully thought-out. I had to consider my every move, lest my instincts lead me in the wrong direction. But with Jenna, it came naturally. I must have grown more accustomed to it than I thought.
My driver, Tim, was waiting for me patiently. Since I asked my employees to arrive by nine o'clock, I always made a point of showing up by eight-thirty so they'd see me settled in already. It was all about setting a good example. This morning, however, time was just slipping away from me. I finally climbed into the backseat of the town car, fighting the nagging sensation that I was forgetting something.
He got us to Jenna's place in record time, and her front door popped open almost as soon as Tim pulled up to the curb. She walked down the stairs quickly, not giving me nearly enough time to appreciate the masterpiece she was wrapped up in.
From head to toe, she looked ready for the red carpet. Her silky dark hair cascaded down, almost unstyled, which suited her best. It was humanly impossible not to imagine running my fingers through it. The dress was a rich shade of eggplant, bringing out some hint of violet in her midnight-blue eyes. The neckline dipped just low enough to hint, but not quite tease, while the fabric clung just right to show off the swing of her hips.
My mouth was suddenly dry.
Suddenly remembering myself, I hopped out quickly, almost colliding with Tim as he went to the open her door. "No, it's fine, I'll get it," I told him, trying to jockey past as an irritated driver honked at us for blocking part of the road.
By the time I made it past him, she was already climbing in. I sighed, and returned to my seat. So much for chivalry.
"You should let me open your door for you," I said, as she gave me a bemused look.
"Seemed like there was some confusion," she said, shrugging. "I thought I'd cut out the middle-man."
This was going to be a long day.
I stabbed the button to raise the partition, and turned to her. "It's one thing around here, where no one's going to notice. But when we're going to be seen together, you need to act like my girlfriend. Like you're expecting me to treat you like a princess."
She rolled her eyes. "Oh my God, what is this? Tsarist Russia? Wait, I know, maybe I should sleep on forty mattresses with a pea under it, so I can prove to the commoners that I'm worthy of your love."
The spike of annoyance in my chest was actually a relief. She hadn't changed. "Just trust me, Jenna. I know this world. You don't."
"Okay, well, I'm pretty sure Mark Zuckerberg's wife opens her own door when she gets into his Honda Fit. Just because you're rich doesn't mean you have to act like disgustingly old money."
"We have to get into the habit," I said, firmly. "People will notice. Mentors of mine, people who've been like parents to me. They're old-fashioned. They need to see me taking care of you."
She absorbed this silently for a while, her arms folded across her chest. It was defensive posture, but I could tell it was beginning to sink in. She really didn't know this world, and she was realizing that now. But it was satisfying to argue with her, rather than her just accepting her fate.
"Thank you for the dress," she said, quietly, after a while.
"My pleasure," I said, fighting to keep the innuendo out of my tone. I was almost successful.
"How'd you know my size?"
"You left your clothes in my laundry room all night, remember?" Belatedly, I realized how creepy that sounded. "I promise, I barely touched them. Just enough to read the tags."
She smirked. "Hey, here's a tip, next time you do something like that, just tell her that you knew by looking at her. I don't know why, but women seem to find that very attractive in a man. It definitely sounds better than 'I rifled through your clothes.'"
"I'm supposed to know someone's dress size by looking at them?" I frowned at her. "How the hell is that even possible?"