Chapter 113 Dressed to the Nines
After Jovan left, the bodyguard unlocked Layla's handcuffs. She winced in pain as she flexed her wrists.
What a jerk he was, scraping her wrists raw with the handcuffs.
Then, several women entered, wheeling in a rack of gowns.
"Good evening, Miss Adkins," said the makeup artist with respectful composure. "We’ve been sent by Mr. Holland to get you ready."
"Ready?" she echoed, perplexed.
That Jovan, always with a new trick up his sleeve. And to think, not long ago, he had her in handcuffs.
What was his endgame? The man had to be twisted.
"Yes, please begin. We shouldn’t keep Mr. Holland waiting."
Layla was ushered into the bathroom, where she took a quick shower. Then, a team set to work, giving her a facial, blow-drying her hair, and manicuring her nails, pampering her from head to toe like a princess.
"I can do it myself, really," Layla protested, uncomfortable with the fuss.
"Just relax and leave it to us, or Mr. Holland might have a word with us later," the makeup artist said, easing her back into her seat.
"Miss Adkins, your skin is simply lovely, so fair and delicate," complimented the makeup artist.
"A natural, light makeup suits you best. What do you think?"
Having rarely done her own makeup, Layla was unversed in the art. "You decide. I trust your judgment."
After about half an hour of careful application, Layla almost dozed off. But the reflection in the mirror left her in awe.
With decent features to begin with, the makeup artist’s expert touch enhanced her beauty without overdoing it, accentuating her best traits. No wonder celebs paid top dollar for such miracle workers.
Then the stylist arrived, displaying a succession of gorgeous dresses for Layla to consider.
"Do you prefer a cute look, Miss Adkins, or perhaps something pure?"
"Or we could try something sexy," the stylist suggested.
"I don't think sexy is for me," Layla hurriedly interjected. She had no intention of revealing too much in front of Jovan.
The stylist eventually decided on a sky-blue strapless mini dress for her, tucking her hair behind her ears to showcase her milky white skin. The bare elegance of her neck, without any jewelry, added to her fresh and ethereal allure.
When Jovan caught sight of Layla in the hallway, even he couldn't hide his admiration.
He knew she was naturally pretty, but he hadn't anticipated how makeup could transform her from uncut gem to an incredible radiance. She was captivating, an embodiment of innocence.
Especially her purity, a quality he'd never encountered in another woman.
It was the kind of purity that made one yearn to defile.
Jovan gripped his champagne flute tighter, unable to look away as she descended the staircase. A tightness grew in his chest.
Standing before him, Layla fidgeted awkwardly, clutching one wrist with her other hand. She felt like she was being scrutinized like a piece of merchandise.
"Well, you're not half bad-looking," Jovan's gaze lit up with a hint of excitement. Petite and delicate, she elicited an instinctual desire to protect. His eyes finally landed on her feet, where instead of heels, she wore simple flats—a clear misstep in his eyes. She was already on the shorter side.
"Why aren't you wearing heels?" Jovan frowned, a visible distaste for the imperfection.
"Pregnant women shouldn't wear heels, or is that common sense lost on you?" Layla snorted.
"How should I know? This male bodyguard has never gotten a woman pregnant," Jovan retorted coldly. "Why fuss over something that's inevitably going to fall apart?"
Her child was her own, and she would do everything in her power to ensure his safety—it was a mother's nature. But Layla couldn't be bothered to explain this to someone so devoid of humanity, someone who would never understand.
"My baby will be born safe and sound," she insisted with certainty.
"Ha, I don't think so," Jovan scoffed.
"What are you still standing around for?"
"Miss Adkins, please take a seat," Henry said, pulling out a chair for her.
Reluctantly, Layla made her way to the table.
The staff brought out the steak. It smelled tantalizing, stirring Layla's hunger.
She'd rushed over and had only nibbled on a sandwich for lunch, leaving her famished. Her hunger only deepened now.
Without waiting for Jovan, she picked up her knife and fork, cutting into the steak and focusing on her meal. Beef was a good source of iron and beneficial for pregnant women.
She'd always said that taking care of the baby started with eating well.
Jovan watched her eating voraciously, his brows drawing together slightly. Was this woman truly fearless, or was she simply indifferent to the danger? Didn't she have any sense of being kidnapped? Did she think this was a casual dinner invitation?
He sipped his red wine, watching her polish off the entire steak without leaving behind even the garnishes like broccoli and carrots.
He'd been with many women before, and they usually took a few bites before declaring themselves full. He had come to expect that as normal, thinking women had tiny appetites. He hadn't anticipated meeting someone like her, capable of eating so heartily.
Licking her lips after finishing, Layla asked, "Is there more? I'll have another."
She wasn't even close to being full.
Jovan let out a cold laugh. "It seems the steak was good. Maybe I should give the chef a raise."
"Layla frowned. 'It was mediocre at best, nothing compared to what I can cook.'"
"You cook?"
"Is that so strange?" Layla didn't confront him directly, but her tone wasn't the warmest either. "Not everyone's born with a silver spoon in their hand, Mr. Bodyguard. Knowing how to cook is pretty standard."
"There are no women around me who cook," Jovan declared. Emily was perhaps the gentlest and most domestic of them, yet even her cooking made him gag. Afterward, he'd resorted to hiring a professional chef.
"Ah," he'd probably never met a woman who wasn't an heiress or a dazzling actress; working up a sweat in the kitchen was hardly their style.
"Is there more steak?" Layla asked again.
Henry was about to instruct the kitchen to prepare another one when he stopped, "You know how to cook. Do it yourself."
Layla frowned, glaring at him crossly. He'd put her through the wringer all day—fighting for her life, being handcuffed, and now she was so exhausted she could hardly muster the energy to chew.
She regretted offering those extra words earlier.
"Do I look like I have the strength to cook right now?"
"Was it me who invited you over?" Jovan shot back. Was it his job to cater to such an ungrateful woman?
"... Then I won’t eat."
"You might not eat, but you still have to cook for me."
Until now, Layla had been docile, but she couldn't help but retort, 'I don’t want to cook for you.
"I wouldn't mind having you tied up and taken there."
Internally she cursed, 'Creep!'
She threw down her napkin and stood up, huffing with irritation as she headed to the kitchen.
"Stop right there!"
"What now?" Layla stopped, her back to him, her face a canvas of annoyance and disgust.
"Have you ever cooked for Samuel?"
She stayed quiet.
"What was the first thing you made?"
"Fried rice with eggs."
"That will do," Jovan declared.
Layla thought he was twisted indeed; despite loathing Samuel so much, she was subject to eating the same simple fare. Wasn't that just pathetic?
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