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.