The next morning, Chantal pulls open the heavy oak doors of her closet to get dressed for work.
She freezes.
Her cheap blouses and skirts are gone. The canvas duffel bag is gone.
In their place hangs a perfectly color-coordinated row of designer dresses, tailored suits, and silk blouses. Below them, a dozen pairs of luxury heels sit in perfect alignment.
Chantal's blood boils. Her chest heaves with sudden, violent anger.
She spins around and marches out of the bedroom. She finds Reginald in the downstairs hallway, inspecting a floral arrangement.
"Where are my clothes?" Chantal demands, her voice shaking with rage.
Reginald turns, his face impassive. "Mr. Valdez left instructions to dispose of your previous wardrobe, ma'am. He felt it was not suitable for your new position."
Chantal's hands curl into fists. Her nails bite into her palms. He is treating her like a doll. A prop he can dress up to suit his aesthetic.
She turns and marches toward the stairs, fully intending to kick Dell's bedroom door in.
She gets to the top step, raises her fist to pound on the wood, and stops.
Clause 4: The wife shall maintain a public image befitting the Valdez name.
She drops her hand. A sickening wave of helplessness washes over her. She turns around, walks back to her room, and pulls the most boring, conservative gray designer suit from the rack.
The anger of that morning slowly fades into the monotonous, suffocating rhythm of the next few weeks.
The crisp November air turns biting and brutal as Thanksgiving passes in complete isolation. They live like ghosts in the same house. They communicate only through Reginald. They never eat together. They never speak.
Until a Friday evening in early December.
Chantal is sitting in her office at Lumina Jewelry, rubbing her aching temples as she reviews a supplier contract.
Her personal phone, which rarely makes a sound, vibrates violently against the desk.
She glances at the screen. The caller ID says Mr. Valdez.
Her heart skips a beat. She picks up the phone and opens the text message.
The Plaza Hotel. 7:00 PM. Wear the red dress. We have a performance tonight.
Chantal stares at the words. Her stomach twists into a tight knot. A performance? What does that even mean?
She looks at the clock on the wall. It is 5:15 PM.
Panic spikes in her chest. She shoves the contracts into her drawer, grabs her keys, and runs out of the office.
She drives like a maniac back to the Upper East Side. The tires of her Honda Civic squeal as she takes the turns too fast.
She sprints up the stairs to her bedroom and tears through the closet. She finds it pushed to the back. A dark red velvet gown with a slit that runs dangerously high up the thigh.
She strips off her work clothes and pulls the dress on.
She turns to the full-length mirror. The dress clings to every curve of her body like a second skin. It is aggressive. It is incredibly exposing.
She tries to find a shawl to cover her bare shoulders, but a knock on the door stops her.
"The car is waiting, ma'am," Reginald calls out.
Chantal abandons the search. She quickly pins her hair up, swipes a bold red lipstick across her mouth, and grabs a heavy black wool coat.
She walks downstairs and gets into the back of the waiting Rolls-Royce.
The drive back into Manhattan is a blur of anxiety. Her mind races, trying to calculate what kind of crisis requires her presence after six months of absolute silence.
The car pulls onto Fifth Avenue. The brilliant, glowing lights of The Plaza Hotel come into view.
The driver opens her door. Chantal takes a deep breath, her lungs fighting against the tight corset of the dress, and steps out into the freezing night.
