by Sophie Lark
Nessa comes out looking like the dancer she is, her slender neck rising from the bodice of the gown, the skirt as puffy as a tutu.
“What do you think?” she says, twirling around on the raised dais. Now she looks like one of those music-box ballerinas
“I think you’re the one that should be getting married,” I say to her. “It suits you way better.”
I reach out my hands so we can dance around together. Our skirts are so huge that we have to bend way over to even reach each other. Nessa falls off the dais, landing unharmed in the massive puff of her own skirt. We both burst out laughing.
Riona watches us, unsmiling.
“Hurry up,” she snaps. “I haven’t got all day to spend on this.”
“Just pick one, then,” I bark back at her. “I don’t give a shit which dress I wear.”
“It’s your wedding dress,” Imogen says, in her calm, cultured voice. “It has to speak to you. It has to resonate. Then someday you can pass it down to your own daughter.”
My stomach gives a lurch. She’s talking about some fictional daughter I’m supposed to have with Callum Griffin. The idea of waddling around pregnant with his baby makes me want to rip off this skirt and sprint out of the store. This place is stuffed with so much pure-white tulle, beading, sequins, and lace that I can barely breathe.
“I really don’t care,” I tell Imogen. “I’m not that into dresses. Or clothes in general.”
“That’s obvious,” Riona says tartly.
“Yeah,” I snap, “I don’t dress like Corporate Barbie. How’s that working out for you, by the way? Does your dad let you take notes on his meetings, or do you just stand there looking pretty?”
Riona’s face turns as red as her hair. Imogen interrupts before Riona can retort.
“Maybe something a little simpler would appeal to you, Aida.”
Imogen motions to the attendant, requesting several dresses by number and designer name. She obviously did her research before she came. I don’t care what she picked out. I just want this to be over. I’ve never pulled up so many zippers in my life.
I don’t know what happened to my mother’s dress. But I do know what it looked like—I have a picture of her on her wedding day. She’s sitting in a gondola in Venice, right in the bow of the boat, the long, lace train trailing over the bow, almost touching the pale green water. She’s looking right at the camera, haughty and elegant.
Actually, one of the dresses Imogen selected is a little like my mother’s—caplet sleeves trailing off the shoulders. A fitted bodice with a sweetheart neckline. Old-fashioned lace, but no puffiness. Just smooth, simple lines.
“I like this one,” I say hesitantly.
“Yes,” Imogen agrees. “That off-white suits you.”
“You look STUNNING,” Nessa says.
Even Riona doesn’t have anything disparaging to say. She just tilts up her chin and nods.
“Let’s wrap it up, then,” I say.
The attendant takes the dress, fretting over the fact that we don’t have time to get it altered before the wedding.
“It fits fine,” I assure her.
“Yes, but if you took it in just a little at the bust—”
“I don’t care,” I say, shoving it into her arms. “It’s good enough.”
“I’ve booked girls to do your hair and makeup the morning of the wedding,” Imogen tells me.
That sounds like way more fuss than necessary, but I force myself to smile and nod. It’s not worth fighting over—there will be plenty of things to brawl about later.
“Callum has booked a spa day for you as well, the day before the wedding,” Imogen says.
“That’s really not necessary,” I tell her.
“Of course it is! You’ll want to relax and be pampered.”
I don’t like relaxing or being pampered.
This is how Imogen Griffin gets her way, I’m sure—telling you how it’s going to be with a light tone and polite smile on her face. Acting like any resistance would be the height of uncouthness, so you’re shamed into going along.
“I’m busy,” I tell her.
“It’s already booked,” Imogen says. “I’ll send a car around at nine to pick you up.”
I’m about to say, I won’t be there, but I force myself to take a deep breath and swallow down the instinctive rebelliousness. It’s just a spa day. They’re trying to be nice, in their own pushy, prissy way.
“Thank you,” I say through gritted teeth.
Imogen gives me a tight smile.
“You’ll be the perfect bride,” she says.
It sounds more like a threat than a compliment.
Each day is whipping by faster than the one before. When the wedding was two weeks away, it seemed like a lifetime. Like anything could happen in between to call it off.
But now it’s only three days away. Then two. Then, it’s actually happening tomorrow, and I’m waiting outside my house for Imogen’s stupid town car to pick me up, to take me to some spa day that I neither want nor need.
I know they want to pluck me and exfoliate me and rub off all my rough edges, making me some smooth, soft little wifey for the scion of their family. The great Callum Griffin. He’s their JFK, and I’m supposed to be their Jackie Kennedy.
I’d rather be Lee Harvey Oswald.
Still, I stuff down all my irritation and let the driver take me to a posh spa on Walton Street.
It’s not so bad to begin with. Callum really did book the works. The aestheticians soak my feet and paint my fingers and toes. They have me sit in a giant mud bath with a completely different sort of mud plastered all over my face. Then they put some conditioning wrap on my hair, and after that’s all had time to seep in, they wash it off, then oil me up like a Thanksgiving turkey. They cover me in hot stones, then take them off again and start rubbing and pummeling every inch of my body.
Since I don’t give a fig about being naked, this is my favorite part. I’ve got two ladies with their four hands all over me, rubbing and massaging and working out every last stress-induced muscle knot that’s burrowed its way into my neck, my back, even my arms and legs. Seeing as Callum is the one who initiated that stress in the first place, I guess it’s only fitting that he should pay to have it rubbed out again.
It’s so delightfully relaxing that I start to fall asleep, lulled by the women’s hands on my skin, and the faux ocean sounds being pumped through the speakers.
I wake up to blinding pain in the crotch region. The aesthetician stands over me, holding a waxing strip bearing the little hairs that used to be attached to my body.
“What the fuck?” I shriek.
“It can sting a little,” she says in a completely unsympathetic tone.
I look down at my lady bits, which are now completely bald on the left side.
“What the hell are you doing?” I shout at her.
“Your Brazilian,” she says, slapping another wax strip down on the right side.
“Hey!” I smack her hand away. “I don’t want a fucking Brazilian! I don’t want to be waxed at all.”
“Well, it was on the service list,” she picks up her clipboard and hands it to me, like that’s going to ease the burning fire on the newly bald and horribly sensitive parts of my groin.
“I didn’t set the damn service list!” I shout, tossing down the clipboard. “And I don’t want you practicing your torture techniques on my crotch.”
“The wax is already set,” she says, pointing to the strip she just slapped down. “It has to come off, one way or another.”
I try to pry up the edge of the cloth strip, but she’s right. It’s already good and adhered to what little hair I had left. The aesthetician looks down at me with zero sympathy in her cool blue eyes. I think these women get off on inflicting pain. I could easily see her swapping out her white smock for a leather corset and riding crop.
“Get it off, then,” I say grumpily.
With one quick jerk, the aesthetician rips off t
he strip, leaving another stripe of smooth pink skin.
I shriek and let out a string of expletives, some English and some Italian. The aesthetician doesn’t even flinch. I’m sure she’s heard it all.
“Alright, that’s enough!” I say.
“You can’t leave it like that,” she says, wrinkling her nose.
Cazzo! I’ve got about two-thirds of my pussy waxed, with little patches of hair in odd places. It does look fucking awful. I don’t care for Callum’s sake, but I don’t want to have to look at that for weeks until it grows out again.
I can’t fucking believe his nerve, booking a bikini wax along with everything else. He thinks he owns my pussy already? He thinks he gets to decide how it looks?
I should wait until he’s sleeping, then slap hot wax on his balls. Give him a taste of his own medicine.
Grimly, I say, “Fine. Finish it off.”
It takes three more strips and a whole lot more swearing to get off the remaining hair. When they’re finished, I’m completely bald, the cool air touching me as it never has before.
It’s fucking humiliating. It’s . . . whatever the feminine version of “emasculating” would be. I’m like Sampson. Callum stole my hair and stripped me of my power.
I’m going to get back at him for this, that conniving, perverted fuck. He thinks he can wax my pussy without consent? He doesn’t even know what he’s starting.
The aestheticians go back to massaging me, but I’m fucking fuming.
I’m already planning all the ways I’m going to make Callum’s life a living hell.
10
Callum
It’s my wedding day.
It’s nothing like I pictured, but then, I never spent much time picturing getting married. I expected it to happen eventually, but I never really gave a shit about it.
I’ve dated plenty of women—when it was convenient. I’ve always had my own plans, my own goals. Any woman had to fit in with that, or I’d cut her loose the minute she became more trouble than she was worth.
In fact, I was dating someone when my father arranged this whole thing with the Gallos. Charlotte Harper and I had been together about three months. As soon as I found out that I was “engaged,” I called her to break it off. And I felt . . . nothing. I didn’t really care if I saw Charlotte again or not. There’s nothing wrong with her—she’s pretty, accomplished, well-connected. But when I break up with a woman, I feel the same as when I throw away an old pair of shoes. I know I’ll find a new one soon enough.
This time the new one is Aida Gallo. And I’m supposed to love, cherish, and protect her until the end of her days. I’m not sure I can do any of those things, except maybe keep her safe.
Here’s one thing I do know: I’m not going to put up with her fucking nonsense once we’re married. It’s like my father says: she needs to be trained. I’m not going to have some wild, disobedient wife. She will learn to obey me, one way or another. Even if I have to grind her down to powder under my feet.
I smirk a little, thinking about her “spa day” yesterday. The point of that, obviously, was to get her ready for tonight. I’m supposed to consummate the marriage, and I’m not fucking some messy little ragamuffin in flip flops and jean shorts. I expect her to be properly groomed, from head to toe.
I love the idea of her being primped and cleaned and waxed to my specifications. Like a little doll, built just the way I like it.
I’ve already showered and shaved, so now it’s time to put on my tux. But when I check the hook in the closet where I expect it to be hung, there’s nothing there.
I call down to Marta, one of our house staff.
“Where’s my tux?”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Griffin,” she says nervously. “I went to the shop to pick it up like you said, but they told me the order had been cancelled. A box was shipped here instead, from Ms. Gallo.”
“A box?”
“Yes, shall I bring it up?”
I wait impatiently in the doorway while Marta jogs up the stairs, a large, square garment box in her hands.
What the hell is this? Why is Aida fucking with my tux?
“Leave it,” I say to Marta. She sets the box down gingerly on my couch.
I wait until she’s gone, then I open it up.
On top is an envelope, with the messy handwriting I can only assume belongs to my fiancée. I rip it open, pulling out a note:
Dearest betrothed,
It was so kind of you to see to all my pre-wedding grooming yesterday. What a stimulating and unexpected experience it was!
I’ve decided to return the favor with a gift of my own—a little piece of my culture for your wedding day.
I’m sure you’ll do me the honor of wearing this for our wedding ceremony. I’m afraid I couldn’t possibly say my vows without this reminder of home.
Forever yours,
Aida
I can’t help snickering at her description of the spa. But my smile freezes on my face when I pull apart the tissue paper and see the tux she’s expecting me to wear.
It looks like a fucking clown suit. Made of shiny brown satin, it’s covered in garish embroidery on the shoulders, lapels, and even the back of the jacket. It’s a three-piece suit complete with vest, not to mention a lace pocket square and cravat. The only person I can picture wearing this is Liberace.
My mother hustles into the room, looking flustered. I can see she’s already dressed in an elegant sage-green cocktail gown, her hair a smooth, pale cap, and tasteful gold earrings dangling from her lobes.
“What are you doing? Why aren’t you dressed?” she says, when she sees me standing there with a towel tied around my waist.
“Because I don’t have my tux,” I tell her.
“What’s that?”
I step aside so she can see. She plucks up the lace cravat, holding it distastefully between her forefinger and thumb.
“A gift from my soon-to-be bride,” I say, holding out the card.
My mother reads it in a glance. She frowns, then says, “Put it on.”
I bark out a laugh.
“You have to be joking.”
“Do it!” she says. “We don’t have time to get another tux. And it’s not worth blowing this whole thing up over a suit.”
“This is not a suit. It’s a fucking embarrassment.”
“I don’t care!” she says sharply. “It’s a small wedding. Hardly anyone will see.”
“Not happening.”
“Callum,” she snaps. “Enough. You’re going to have a hundred more battles to fight with Aida. You need to pick the ones that are important. Now get moving, we need to leave in six minutes.”
Unbelievable. I thought she’d lose her mind over this, if only for the way the brown will clash with her carefully-curated cream, olive, and gray color scheme.
I pull on the ridiculous suit, almost choking on the smell of mothballs. I don’t even want to know where Aida dug this up. Probably her great-grandfather was buried in it.
The important thing is how I’m going to punish her for this.
She’s made a serious mistake, poking the bear over and over again. It’s time for me to wake up and give her a good slap.
She’ll get what’s coming to her tonight.
As soon as I’m dressed, I hurry down the stairs to the waiting limo. The one carrying my mother and sisters already left—it’s just me and my father in this one.
He raises an eyebrow at my suit but doesn’t say anything. My mother probably already briefed him.
“How are you feeling?” he asks me curtly.
“Fantastic,” I say. “Can’t you tell?”
“Sarcasm is the lowest form of humor,” he informs me.
“I thought that was puns.”
“This will be good for you, Cal. You can’t see it now, but it will be.”
I set my teeth, imagining taking out every one of my frustrations on Aida’s tight little ass tonight.
I feel sacrilegious walking into the c
hurch—like god might strike us down for this unholy union. If Aida pisses me off enough, I’m going to dunk her in the holy water and see if it sets her aflame.
It’s easy to see which side of the aisle is mine and which is Aida’s—all those dark, curly-haired Italians vs. the horse mane hues of the Irish: blond, red, gray, and brunette.
The groomsmen are Aida’s brothers, the bridesmaids are my sisters. We have equal numbers because only Dante and Nero are standing up—Sebastian is sitting in the front row in a wheelchair, his knee still bulky from the bandage under his slacks.
I don’t know if he actually needs the wheelchair, or it’s just a ‘fuck you’ to my side of the family, but I feel a twinge of guilt regardless. I push it away, thinking the Gallos are lucky they got off that easy.
The sage-green bridesmaids’ dress suits Riona very well, but not Nessa—it makes her look pale and a bit sickly. She doesn’t seem to mind. She’s the only one smiling up by the altar. Dante and Riona are glaring at each other, and Nero is looking at Nessa with an expression of interest that has me about five seconds away from wrapping my fingers around his throat. If he says one word to her, I’m going to bash his pretty face in.
The church is full of the heavy scent of cream-colored peonies. The priest is already standing at the altar. We’re just waiting for Aida.
The music starts, and after a moment’s pause, my bride comes walking up the aisle.
She’s wearing a veil and a simple lace dress that trails after her. She has a bouquet in one hand, but she lets it hang by her thigh, using her other hand to hold the skirt of her dress. I can’t see her face behind the veil, which drives home more than ever that I’m marrying a stranger. There could be anybody under there.
My bride stops in front of me. I lift the veil.
I see her smooth, tanned skin and her clear gray eyes, heavily lashed. I have to admit, she looks beautiful. The reveal of her face drives home how lovely those features really are, when they’re not screwed up in some demonic expression.
It doesn’t last long—as soon as she catches an unencumbered view of my suit, her face lights up with malicious glee.
