The Torn Nightgown

"Oh… I didn’t know that," she said with a hint of sarcasm.

He frowned, briefly wondering if she was serious.

"So, what now? And what exactly was I supposed to do with that information?" she asked, resting one hand on her hip.

"I can’t go in. It’s a women’s store. My presence would probably make the women uncomfortable and embarrassed."

He also wanted to tell her that he would be the one who'd probably die of embarrassment, especially if she tried on one of the nightgowns and stepped onto the platform afterward.

Good God... don't even go there, he thought, his eyes closing instinctively.

That situation alone would kill him. And knowing Monica, it wasn't far-fetched at all. She was bold enough to do something exactly like that.

"Do your eyes hurt?" She asked.

He snapped his eyes open. "Yeah, yeah, I think some dust got in them." He blurted out.

"Go rinse your eyes, then come back and wait for me here." She extended the shopping bags toward him.

"Excuse me, how am I supposed to carry all of this?" he shifted his gaze to her, trying to draw her attention to the sling on his injured arm while his good hand already occupied with some bags.

"Does it still hurt?" she asked softly.

"A little," he said.

"Umm, okay. I’ll just leave them on the floor." She dropped them beside him and walked inside.

The lingerie was hanging in every direction in front of her, but one nightgown immediately caught her eye. She took it off the rack and headed to the fitting room.

When she finished changing, she looked at herself in the mirror with clear admiration. It was a short black nightgown, falling slightly below the curve of her hips. The upper part was designed like a supportive bra with thin straps, while a sheer layer flowed beneath the bust, revealing black lace underneath. On both sides, there were two long cut-outs extending from the waist down. She looked dangerously sexy.

She rested a hand gently against her neck, her fingers drifting slowly over her collarbone before trailing down to her chest. She missed Sam’s touch. She missed the way he made her feel like a woman when she was in his arms. Two full months away from him, and she could already feel the longing burning behind her eyes. A sudden smile curved her lips as a crazy idea crossed her mind.

She pulled out her phone from her handbag, opened the camera, and snapped a quick selfie. Then she opened his chat. He was online, luckily. The small, excited smile still tugged at her lips as she sent it with a single message.

See what you’re missing.

A moment later, the blue double ticks appeared.

Her breath hitched. One second. Two. Three… She waited, bracing for his reaction, the one she wanted to ignite her own desire as well, but then his status changed. He went offline, leaving the message on read.

There it is.

That familiar feeling of being ignored by him hit her again, the one that always cracked her open and left her bleeding inside.

She swallowed against the lump in her throat. Tears rose quickly in her eyes. She pressed a hand over her mouth, trying to stifle the sobs so no one would hear, but she couldn’t hold them back. She dropped to her knees and broke down.

Not only because he had ignored her, but because she felt deeply humiliated, especially in her femininity.

She opened the chat again, hoping he had come back online, but he hadn’t. She stood up and looked at herself in the mirror once more. Then, in a sudden burst of emotion, she threw her phone down and grabbed the nightgown she was wearing, tearing it in half.

She roughly wiped away her tears, grabbed her clothes from the rack, and hurriedly dressed, still slightly shaking. Then she walked out and approached the counter.

"I want to pay for this," she said.

The sales assistant’s eyes widened as she looked at the torn nightgown in Monica’s hands. "O-okay"

The women nearby exchanged confused glances, whispering to each other. Monica noticed, but didn’t care.

~~~

Marcello was still standing outside the boutique, leaning against the wall with one ankle crossed over the other, his good hand tucked into his pocket.

He exhaled sharply. "That woman is really testing what little patience I have left," he muttered.

His phone rang. He slipped it from his pocket, and the moment he saw the familiar name on the screen, he looked through the boutique’s front window to make sure Monica wasn’t near him, then walked several steps away before answering.

"What do you want?" he said irritably.

"I want the rest of my money," the man replied. "We agreed on half before the job and the other half after. Don’t tell me you’re backing out now."

"And how exactly was I supposed to pay you while I was stuck in that damn hospital for the past three weeks? The bullet you fired into my arm came close to hitting the bone. Luckily, it didn't."

"That was your order," the man said with a laugh. "You told me to shoot you in the arm. In all my years as a thug, I’ve never had someone pay me to shoot them."

"I've got to admit," the man continued, his curiosity getting the better of him, "I'm dying to know why you wanted this."

"None of your business," Marcello replied, his voice calm. As his gaze drifted back to the boutique, he saw Monica storm out of the door.

"I have to hang up now," he said. "I'll call you tonight so we can arrange a time to get the rest of your money." Without waiting for a reply, he ended the call.

Monica turned away without a word, walking off as if he wasn’t even there.

Marcello frowned, watching her retreating figure with clear confusion. "Miss Monica," he called after her.

She stopped but didn’t turn right away. She let out a sharp breath, tilting her head slightly upward for a moment, eyes closed as if trying to hold herself together. Then she turned to face him.

"What? What do you want?" she snapped.

His eyes narrowed as he studied her expression. Something about her mood felt off, darker than usual.

The lingerie boutique was meant to lift her spirits. Not make them worse, he thought.

"Where are you going?" he asked.

"To the mansion."

"And the bags?" His gaze dropped to the pile of shopping bags on the ground. "I can’t use my injured arm."

"Figure it out."

"What?" he blurted.

She moved abruptly toward him. Without hesitation, she grabbed the bags and shoved them onto both of his arms, not caring if it hurt him. He by reflex bent the elbow of his good arm to hold them.

His eyes darkened with something violent as she had crossed all his red lines, and the thin thread of patience he had been holding onto finally snapped.

He suddenly swung his arm and threw the bags down with force, and the sound echoed sharply across the polished floor.