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 the 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.