Chapter 2 Lace panties.
889 Words
"Half an hour?" Clarice froze. Wasn't Theodore just at the bar? That trip should take an hour minimum—how could he be back so soon?
She had to get home first. The moment the thought crystallized, panic seized her. She yanked the privacy divider shut in the taxi, her hands moving frantically. The pink wig came off first, then the heavy makeup was scrubbed away with cleansing wipes. She peeled off the sequined top and ripped denim shorts, changing into a plain white T-shirt and soft sweatpants from her bag. The disguise was gone, but the stubborn smell of alcohol still clung to her skin and hair—a dead giveaway.
If Theodore made it back before her and caught a whiff of this, the carefully constructed image of the docile, obedient girl would shatter. And if he saw through the act… would he send her back to the Sullivans like damaged goods? The very reason she had agreed to this marriage—her sister—would be jeopardized. All her sacrifices would be for nothing.
"Driver, step on it. I'll make it worth your while," she urged, thrusting a handful of cash through the opening.
She had to win this race against her husband.
The cab barely stopped at the Grant estate before Clarice flung the door open and sprinted toward the mansion. The fresh clothes and clean face were a start, but the scent of beer was a persistent ghost around her.
Why did he have to come home early? And why, after being at a bar full of available women, did he have to choose tonight to come home to her?
"Mr. Chambers," she asked, bursting through the front door and trying to steady her breath at the sight of the butler. "Is Mr. Grant back yet?"
"Not yet, Madam."
"Oh, thank God." The breath she didn't realize she was holding rushed out. Not waiting for a follow-up question, she flew up the stairs.
A fluffy white Samoyed bounded toward her from the second-floor landing, tail wagging.
"Not now, Snowy, go play." She sidestepped the dog, not breaking her stride.
Snowy let out a series of indignant barks at the rejection but trotted after her into the bedroom regardless.
The clothes came off again, this time tossed heedlessly to the floor. She dove straight into the shower, scrubbing her skin and washing her hair twice with scented shampoo until not a trace of the bar remained. She had to be spotless, smelling pure and fresh, perfectly prepped to play the part of the sweet, waiting wife for Mr. Grant.
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Theodore had barely stepped off the plane before his friend dragged him to a bar. The moment he entered, however, a woman with garish makeup accosted him, shattering his mood entirely.
He had never liked women with heavy makeup who made advances; he preferred those who were well-spoken, gentle, and obedient.
Clarice, the one the Sullivans had sent over, fit that description perfectly. Though they had clearly switched brides on him—he was originally meant to marry the second daughter, Lydia—he had not sent her back.
"Sir, Madam is waiting for you upstairs," Mr. Chambers said, holding the door open.
Theodore handed him his coat and ascended the stairs. The second-floor hallway was strewn with women's clothing—a shirt, jeans, underwear—trailing from the bedroom door all the way to the staircase. Snowy, being the dramatic dog he was, had even dragged out a pair of her lace panties.
Spotting Theodore, the dog dropped the delicate fabric, offered a tentative bark, and then scurried away under his master's icy glare.
Theodore bent and picked up the panties by the bedroom door. They were lace, unmistakably sensual, shimmering under the warm light.
Inside the room, Clarice was utterly bewildered. She had left her clothes neatly folded on the bed before her shower, but now they were gone. Wrapped only in a towel, she froze as she saw Theodore standing in the doorway, holding her underwear.
That particular set… she had worn it with him in mind.
If some random man held them, it would feel vulgar. But held by a man as strikingly handsome as Theodore? The effect was entirely different. A reckless impulse surged through her—the urge to simply push him onto the bed.
He stepped fully into the room, his gaze taking her in—Clarice, standing there in nothing but a towel, her skin still glistening with moisture. Beads of water traced a path down her collarbone, disappearing into the pristine white fabric wrapped tightly around her.
She stood quietly before him, head slightly bowed, the picture of soft submission.
This was his wife now.
He was originally supposed to marry Lydia, the second daughter. But after sleeping with her, he found out—surprise—the Sullivans had done a bait and switch.
They hadn't even signed the marriage license yet—just threw a quiet dinner at the Grant estate. But he'd already taken her to bed, and in his mind, that sealed the deal.
He was furious at the Sullivans, sure. But not enough to undo what had already been done.
And this woman, whoever she really was, at least she knew how to behave.
That's exactly what he needed in a wife.
- Writer
