Maisie
Tell them. Don't tell them.
Tell them. Definitely don't tell them.
I was plucking imaginary daffodils in my head while the car purred down the road. Telling them someone had broken into my room last night would mean admitting I was rattled. It would mean asking for help. It would mean being open and vulnerable and my pride wouldn't let me.
So I sat in tense silence at the back of the Rolls Royce, pretending I didn't notice four sets of eyes devouring me.
The cream sweater clung softly to my ample chest. The mid-thigh skirt had ridden up just enough to expose a dangerous stretch of smooth thigh. The knee-high boots made my legs look endless.
I felt their stares like physical touches. Like torches set to my skin.
Juliette was in the front seat with the driver, chattering away in soft, excited bursts I could barely make out over the demarcation and I felt like an idiot for letting Quinlan taunt me into the backseat with them.
"I'd like to go separately," I'd said.
