Revenge:An Alpha Billionaire RomanceBy: Lauren Landish
Red. He likes red. I chose this dress carefully, making sure to pick one that would be both classy and slutty at the same time. The fabric is skintight, and I can't wear anything underneath except for a G-string. I can't even wear a bra, and he'll notice for sure. Jackson always notices a woman's breasts. Mine aren't the biggest, but that's okay. He has a thing for nipples, and I've been told mine are perfect.
Next come the silk thigh highs. The dress has a slit that goes almost all the way up my right leg, revealing a lot of thigh. He'll notice the lace top, and the fact that I'm wearing something other than pantyhose will draw his attention. I put less care into selecting the heels I'll be wearing. We'll be in a car for most of what I have planned for him, so they're what I'd consider reasonable. They're just meant to draw attention to my calves, so they're only three inch heels. I like my calves. They're pure muscle, and extremely defined from all the training I do.
Now is the hard part, the wig. I don't want Jackson recognizing who I am at first, so securing my naturally brown hair underneath this platinum blonde wig is vital. I want this hair to look like it really belongs to me. It's why I spent nearly as much money on the wig as I did on the dress, and I've practiced multiple times with the spirit gum to make sure it all looks natural. My eyes... well, blue eyes go with blonde hair all the time, but the false eyelashes I'm wearing can partially hide my eye color for a while. A little bit of makeup will help soften my jawline. I've increased my food intake over the past few days, trying to add a little bit of body fat—at least enough that you can't see my jaw muscles flexing when I chew. I don't give a shit, since I like my body the way it is, but Jackson likes women with a little more meat on their bones. I'm glad at least I keep my hair short, not quite butch short, but it's still considered short for a woman. I don't have time to deal with that shit... I've got other issues to deal with besides worrying about my looks.
Okay. Dress, stockings, shoes by the door, hair... check. As for makeup, I'm going with sultry and dark eye makeup to help my eyes look larger, more doe-eyed. I made sure to spend extra time on my eyeliner, because when I make my big reveal, I want Jackson to know exactly who I am as he stares into my eyes. And I know he remembers my eyes. The lipstick I'm wearing matches my dress, and makes my lips look plump and pouty. Everything I'm wearing practically screams, 'Fuck me, Jackson DeLaCoeur!'.
I look at myself critically in the mirror. The woman staring back at me isn't Katrina Grammercy, the twenty-two-year-old orphan whose parents were ripped from her by a car bomb a decade ago. She isn't the Katrina Grammercy who did nothing but sob for weeks, living in a haze for months. That woman never heard the rumors, never had to learn that her best friend's father, Peter DeLaCoeur, had orchestrated the whole thing. I stare at my reflection, and I don't see any traces of the woman who swore vengeance on the DeLaCoeurs, the woman who no longer goes by Katrina, just Kat.
Instead, all I see is exactly what I want Jackson to see. He might have been my best friend ten years ago, but a lot can happen in ten years. The Jack DeLaCoeur I knew is gone. Jackson has followed in his criminal father's footsteps—partying, fucking, and ruining people's lives. While Jackson may not have had anything to do with my parents' death, this is the only way to put my plan in motion. Besides, I'm leaving him alive. That's better than what his father did to my parents.
Thinking about the bombing, the way the fireball rolled across the concrete ceiling and stained the parking garage by the convention center, singeing my hair even though I was fifty feet away, the smell of everything burning... knowing my parents were trapped inside, and I couldn't do anything but watch helplessly...
I shake my head. I can't let the blackness overtake me, not right now. I can't afford it. Before it sinks its eagle claws into my brain again, I go over to my dresser to retrieve a small plastic bottle. This isn't on any medical directory in the world, but this special concoction my herbalist connection makes for me works wonders. It's got GABA, a little THC extract, and some Chinese shit I can't even pronounce. Unscrewing the top of the bottle, I shake out four capsules. They look like rabbit food—little pellets of grass trimmings and yellow pollen sitting in my hand. I down them with a glass of water, then grimace. They taste like rabbit food, too. I lie down on my bed, the cheap springs creaking in complaint despite the fact I only weigh one hundred and twenty-five pounds. The bed's a piece of shit, but it's all the bed I need.