He really didn’t need to leave one whole side empty. My clothes look ludicrously lonely, dangling in the space.

Not that Callum has that many clothes himself. He’s got a dozen identical white shirts, three blue, suits ranging from charcoal to black, and a similarly uniform casual wardrobe. His clothes are hung with robotic precision.

“Oh my god,” I whisper, as I touch the sleeve of one of three identical gray cashmere sweaters. “I’ve married a psychopath.”

Once I’ve unpacked, there’s really nothing left to do except look for Callum.

I slink downstairs, wondering if I should maybe apologize. On the one hand, he totally had it coming. On the other, I did feel a little guilty when his whole face started to swell up, and he was clutching and clawing at his throat.

I snacked on strawberries all morning, thinking it would give him hives. Maybe ruin a few of our stupid wedding photos.

The actual effect was far more dramatic. If Imogen Griffin hadn’t had an epi-pen stashed in her Birkin bag, I might be a widow right now instead of a wife. She ran to her son, jamming the uncapped needle into his thigh, while Fergus called an ambulance.

However, when I reach the pool deck, I see that Callum looks completely recovered. He’s not resting at all, but swimming laps. His arm cuts through the water like a knife, brilliant droplets sparkling in his dark hair. His body looks lean and powerful as he dives under the water, pushes off the wall, and rockets half the length of the pool before having to come up for air.

I sit down on one of the deck chairs, watching him swim.

It’s actually pretty amazing how long he can hold his breath underwater. I guess the Griffins must be part dolphin.

I watch him swim a dozen more laps, only realizing how much time has passed when he stops abruptly, leaning his arms on the edge of the pool and shaking water out of his eyes. He looks up at me, fixing me with an unfriendly expression.

“There you are.”

“Yup. Here I am. I put my stuff in your room.”

I don’t call it “our” room. It doesn’t feel like that at all.

Callum looks equally irritated at the prospect of sharing close quarters.

“We don’t have to stay here forever,” he says mutinously. “After the election, we can start looking for our own place. Then we can have separate rooms, if you prefer.”

I nod. “That might be better.”

“I’m going to finish up,” Callum says, readying himself to push off the wall again.

“Okay.”

“Oh, but one thing first.”

“What?”

He beckons for me to come closer.

I walk over to the side of the pool, still distracted by the question of whether I should say sorry or not.

Callum’s hand shoots up and closes around my wrist. With a jerk, he yanks me down into the water, and wraps his iron-clad arms around me.

I’m so surprised that I yelp, letting out a breath instead of sucking one in. The water closes over my head, colder than I expected. Callum’s arms squeeze me hard, pinning my arms against my sides so I can’t move them at all.

The pool is too deep for my feet to touch. Callum’s weight drags me down like an anvil. He’s squeezing me like a snake, crushing me against his body.

I’m trying to squirm and struggle, but there’s nothing for me to kick against, and my arms are pinned. My lungs are burning, heaving, trying to force me to inhale, even though I know I’ll suck in a mouthful of chlorinated water.

My eyes open involuntarily. All I can see is bright teal, turbulent from my useless struggles. Callum is going to kill me. He’s going to drown me right now. This is the last thing I’ll ever see—the last bit of my air, rising to the surface in silvery bubbles.

I’m twitching, jerking, starting to go limp as inky spots burst in front of my eyes.

Then he finally releases me.

I pop to the surface, gasping and coughing. I’m exhausted from fighting him. It’s hard to tread water with my soaking wet jeans and t-shirt dragging me down.

He rises next to me, just out of reach of my flailing arms.

“You—you FUCK!” I shout, trying to hit him.

“How do you like having your air cut off?” he says, glaring at me.

“I’m going to feed you every fucking strawberry in the state!” I shriek at him, still choking on pool water.

“Yeah, you try that. And next time I’ll tie a fucking piano to your legs before I throw you in the pool.”

He swims to the other side and climbs out before I’ve even made it to the edge.

I wait until he’s gone to pull myself out of the pool, sopping and shivering.

To think I was going to apologize to him.

Well, I learned my lesson.

Callum doesn’t know who he’s playing with. He thought I messed up his house before? Well, I live here now. I’ll see everything he does, hear everything. And I’ll use what I learn to destroy him.

12

Callum

I stomp inside the house, my entire body shaking with rage.

The nerve of that fucking girl, showing up here with her suitcase like she didn’t just try to kill me. Like I didn’t spend my wedding night in the hospital with a fucking tube shoved down my throat.

She humiliated me in front of everyone—first with that suit, and then by making me look weak, fragile, utterly pathetic.

That allergy is the most embarrassing thing about me. It makes me feel like some little kid with coke-bottle glasses and a snot nose. I hate that it’s so irrational. I hate that I can’t control it. I hate that I have such a ridiculous vulnerability.

I don’t know how she found out about it, but the fact that she sussed it out and used it against me makes me absolutely fucking furious.

So I pulled her under the water to give her a taste of her own medicine. See how she likes clawing and gasping for air, helpless against the necessity to breathe.

It made me feel better. For a minute.

But it also made me feel something else.

Her body, twisting and writhing against me.

It wasn’t supposed to be sexy. And yet, my heart is racing for more than one reason . . .

“Cal,” my father calls as I pass the kitchen doorway.

“What.”

I glance into the kitchen, seeing him seated at the counter, eating one of the meals the chef keeps prepared in the fridge.

“Where’s Aida?” he says.

“Out by the pool,” I tell him, crossing my arms over my bare chest. I didn’t bother to grab a towel, so I’m dripping all over the tiles.

“You should take her out somewhere tonight. A nice dinner. Maybe a show.”

“To what purpose?”

“Because of your . . . accident . . . yesterday, you didn’t make use of the honeymoon suite.”

“I’m aware of that,” I tell him, trying to keep the sarcasm out of my voice.

“You need to seal the deal, so to speak. You know a marriage isn’t finalized until it’s consummated.”

“So you want me to fuck her tonight, is that your point?”

He puts his fork down next to his plate, fixing me with a cold stare.

“No need to be crude.”

“Let’s call a spade a spade. You want me to fuck this girl, despite the fact that we hate each other, despite the fact that she tried to kill me yesterday, because you don’t want your precious alliance to fall apart.”