“Not until after you wear it tonight.”

“Not happening,” I tell him with a toss of my head.

“Get in the shower,” he barks. “We’re going to be late.”

I walk toward the shower, moving deliberately slowly just to annoy him. I don’t need more than half an hour to get ready; I’m not a fucking pageant queen.

Still, I’m tempted to stand under the warm water forever just to let him stew. I’m definitely not wearing that dress—I can wear the yellow one that I wore to the engagement party. Though Callum will probably pop a blood vessel at the idea of a person wearing the same outfit two entire times.

When I step out of the shower, I see that he picked up the clothes I left in a crumpled heap on the bathroom floor. Nice.

I wrap a big, fluffy towel around myself—say what you will about the Griffins, at least they have excellent taste in linens—then I stroll into the closet to find my dress.

Instead, I see that my entire side of the closet has been completely cleared out. Empty hangers dangle at odd angles—some of them still swaying from the wild stripping that occurred here.

I pull open the drawers—empty too. He’s taken every last stitch of my clothing, down to my underwear.

When I turn around, Callum’s broad shoulders are filling the doorway, arms crossed over his chest and smirk on his handsome face.

“Guess it’s the dress or nothing,” he says.

“I pick nothing, then,” I reply, dropping the towel in a puddle around my feet and folding my arms across my chest in imitation of his.

“Understand this,” Callum says quietly. “You’re coming to that dinner tonight, even if I have to throw you over my shoulder and carry you like a caveman. You can be wearing the dress when I do that, or I swear to god, Aida, I will haul you there naked and make you sit in your seat in front of everyone. Don’t fucking test me.”

“That’ll embarrass you more than me,” I snap, but I can feel the color rising in my cheeks. Callum’s eyes look wilder than I’ve ever seen them. I actually think he’s serious. That’s how determined he is to bend me to his will over this stupid dress.

The seconds tick by between us. Seconds that are making us later and later for this fundraiser, but Callum isn’t budging out of the doorway. This is the hill he’s choosing to die on: that ugly beaded dress.

“Fine!” I bark at last. “I’ll put the stupid dress on.”

The smirk on his face makes me want to take it back immediately. Or else punch him in the eye. If I have to go to the dinner in that lame-ass dress, then he can go there with a nice fucking shiner.

I’m so mad I’m almost shaking. I step into the stiff, scratchy dress and stand there while Callum zips up the back. It feels like he’s lacing a corset. I have to suck in my tummy and then, once it’s zipped, I can’t let it out again. Which makes me kind of regret all that popcorn I ate.

“Where did you hide my underwear?” I demand.

I feel Callum’s fingers pause at the top of the zipper.

“You don’t need any underwear,” he says.

That fucker. He’s getting off on this! I knew it!

Sure enough, when I turn around there’s a hungry look on his face, like he wants to rip the dress right off me again. But he won’t do that. He’s going to savor watching me walk around in it all night. Knowing that he’s making me do it. Knowing that I’m not wearing any panties underneath.

I’m so infuriated I could scream. Especially once he holds up the shoes he expects me to wear.

“How am I even going to get those on?” I shout. “I can’t sit down in this fucking straightjacket.”

Callum rolls his eyes.

Then he does something that surprises me.

He gets down on his knee in front of me, placing my hand on his shoulder for balance. He lifts my foot and slides the stiletto onto it, like he’s Prince Charming and I’m Cinderella. His hands are surprisingly gentle as his fingers touch the arch of my foot. He buckles the strap, then puts the other shoe on my opposite foot.

When he stands up again, we’re close to each other, so much that I have to tilt my head to look up at him.

“There,” he says gruffly. “I’ll send Marta up to help you get ready.”

Marta is a catch-all personal assistant to the family, and she also happens to be good with hair and makeup, so she frequently helps Riona and Nessa get ready for events. Imogen does her paint job herself, or else goes to a salon.

“Whatever,” I say.

Callum heads downstairs to find Marta, and I start hobbling back to the bathroom on the sky-high heels.

I don’t know if it’s the lack of underwear or something else, but I can feel an uncomfortable wetness between my legs. Every step I take in that tight dress is making my pussy lips rub together. I’m warm and throbbing, and I keep thinking about that look of arousal on Callum’s face. How stern he was when he ordered me to put on the dress.

What the fuck is happening to me?

It must just be the fact that I haven’t gotten laid in over a week.

Because there’s no way that I could be turned on by Callum ordering me around. That’s crazy. I fucking hate being bossed around.

“Aida?” a voice says behind me.

I yelp and spin around.

It’s just Marta, holding her makeup bag. She’s about thirty years old, with big brown eyes, dark bangs, and a soft voice.

“Callum said you needed a little help getting ready?”

“Right. Yes,” I stammer.

“Take a seat,” she says, pulling a chair up in front of the mirror. “We’ll have you ready in no time.”

14

Callum

Aida comes down the staircase, gingerly and clinging to the railing, twenty minutes late but, frankly, looking stunning. Marta pulled Aida’s hair up into a slightly retro updo that plays up that classic bombshell look. Her eyes are lined with kohl, which highlights their exotic shape and makes them look almost as silvery as the dress.

I like the fact that Aida can barely walk in the stilettos. It gives her a vulnerable air and makes her cling to my arm for the walk to the car.

She’s quieter than usual. I don’t know if she’s annoyed about me stealing her clothes, or if she’s nervous about the night ahead of us.

I feel calm and more focused than I’ve been in weeks. Just as my father predicted, the Italians are throwing their full support behind me now that Aida and I are officially married. La Spata is sunk, and I’ve already dug up some fantastic dirt on Kelly Hopkins from her college years, when she was neck-deep in a cheating ring, selling ready-made thesis papers to wealthier and lazier students. Poor little scholarship student, forced to compromise her morals to get her degree.

That’s what you always find in the end—no matter how pure people pretend to be, when the screw gets tight, there’s always some place they crack.

That’s going to shoot an arrow right through her pretensions of moral superiority. Which leaves the field clear for one candidate alone: me.

The election is only a week away. Almost nothing can fuck this up for me now.

As long as I can keep my wife in line.