She smooths the lilac satin along her thighs. It’s trimmed with Chantilly, spaghetti straps. She’s never owned anything like it. Richard would have hated it. “You look like a whore.”
The room is sparse, spartan. Voile at the windows framing the view, the reason she splurged her budget. Pewter waves spin the shoreline, phoenix-feather tipped, gilded by sunrise.
She needs to find work – waitress, shop assistant, something like that. Richard wouldn’t let her work “No wife of mine, blah.” She wonders how he reacted when he saw the empty closet, the vacant drawers.
She likes to dance.
She feels featherweight.
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