I shrug. “It just seems weird.”
We cross through the great room, and to the other end of the house. Drew opens a door, and we step into the master suite.
Dark tile floors. Rich blue walls. A huge bed that sits atop a fur rug. The fireplace from the great room also opens into this, and I envision myself, naked on the rug, the fire’s warmth on our bodies, Nathan above me. I swallow a smile.
“His bathroom is through there.” He gestures to an arched opening, and I can see a jetted tub and the edge of a shower. I turn back, and watch him move to the windows, pulling at a handle, the entire wall sliding into itself and opening to the backyard. “Your room is out here.”
My room? I hurry forward, stepping over the transom and almost trip down a set of steps, following him along the side of a pool and toward a guesthouse. I stop. The guesthouse is a miniature version of the main home, right down to the identical fireplace and all glass walls. It’s a fish bowl, and I can see its entire layout without setting foot inside. A bedroom, with a seating area and desk. A bathroom. Mini-kitchenette. Fireplace. My room.
He opens the sliding door and turns to me.
“I’m confused…” I glance back at the main house, that contained at least two guest rooms, if my tour’s memory serves correct. “I’m not staying with Nathan?”
“No.” He steps in, holding the door open for me.
“Why not?”
“Why would you?”
This is exasperating. “Because I’m his wife?”
“In name only. You’re forgetting that this is a business arrangement, not a romance.”
“A business arrangement where he fucks me?” It feels crude, saying the words in this environment of expense and class.
He sighs. “Nathan isn’t great at being told he can’t have something. I’d apologize for his actions, but you seem to enjoy them.”
I snap my mouth shut, no good comeback springing to mind.
Drew glances at his watch. “I’ll let you get acquainted here. The others will be arriving in a half hour, if you want to freshen up.
I raise a brow at him. “The others?”
The others. They invade like a hoard of zombies, knocking over planters and clawing past curtains in their haste to pull at my hair, scrape razors over my skin and wield tweezers with sadistic zest.
Okay, maybe it isn’t that bad. I lift up the edge of the gel mask and glance down at my feet and the woman perched before them. “What color are you painting them?” When I ask the question, half of my face mask cracks.
“Nude,” Rosit Fenton barks, scurrying over in a swish of Burberry plaid and cream. “From now on, Candace, only nude on your nails. It’s a rule.”
Another rule. I roll my eyes. I should start writing them down. Drew had, after depositing me into this glass prison, rattled off a few of them. No entering the house after dark. No roaming the house unescorted. No having fun, though that question wasn’t so much stated as implied. “Nude nails. Got it.”
“While I have you…” Rosit drawls. “Let’s discuss the other problem areas.” There is the squeak of wheels against tile and I watch him wheel my desk chair forward, his chubby legs scooting along the floor in the way that a dog would drag his ass across carpet.
“More problem areas?” I groan. I had no idea I was such a beauty train wreck. Between the facial, and the teeth whitening, and fake nails removal, I am feeling a little insecure.
“Honey, we haven’t even gotten started.” He peers at a clipboard, then looks critically at my face. “We’ve still got waxing, lash extensions, cellulite reductions and your diet and exercise regimen to discuss.”
I groan. “Please, just go away.”
“Oh yes,” he intones. “It’s so hard to be well taken care of. We all feel absolutely terrible for you.” He pats my arm in the most condescending manner possible, and a sliver of guilt hits. Maybe I am acting a little spoiled. It isn’t like any of this is painful. And once I get this gunk off my face, and this tent off my hair, I’ll probably love the final product. I force a smile, and firmly instruct myself to relax and enjoy myself. I close my eyes and sink into the recliner, letting all of my stress and fears go.
I can do this. Life as a trophy wife? Piece of freaking cake.
I wheeze out a breath, the pain jolting through me. It’s the anticipation of it that is the worst, not knowing when or where it will come, no warning given, each second of waiting agonizingly long. There is another red bite of pain, and I buck off of the table, screaming out a curse.
“Be still!” The woman snaps at me, her nails digging into my stomach as she presses me down. “Next time, don’t shave first. It makes it hurt more.”
There’s not going to be a next time. As soon as I can walk, as soon as I can stand, I am going to hobble my way into Nathan’s house and tell him that he can stick a wax stick up his ass—I’m never doing this again. The woman yanks again, ripping out the tiny hairs that line my perineum, and I choke back a sob.
I stare at a stranger. When I lean forward, so does she. I run a hand through my hair—thick dark strands—and watch the way it shimmers in the bathroom’s light.
It’s a miracle.
Not that I wasn’t a pretty girl before. I’ve always been pretty, in that hot rod magazine way, a look I enhanced with bleached blonde hair and fake nails, glitter mascara and tan skin adding an extra bit of oomph to my appeal.
Now, I’m all woman. I frown, my wrinkles gone, courtesy of Botox injections. I smile and past my plump, freshly exfoliated lips, brilliant white teeth glisten. My blue eyes—enhanced with color contacts—glow, surrounded by a thick frame of false eyelashes, trimmed to an appropriate natural length.
I cross my legs, and marvel at the smooth feel of the waxed skin. Maybe I will do it again. Just once or twice.
I look down at the booklet before me, turning a page over, and scanning the two outfits featured on the page. Next to each outfit’s items are numbers, which match hangers in my new closet. It is a mix and match system designed for the most idiotic of users. I am supposed to pick an outfit from the book, select the corresponding hangers from the closet, and dress. The book is a waste of time, since everything in the closet is either white, black or cream. I’ll have to work pretty hard to fuck up that color combination.
There is the rap of knuckles against the glass, and I turn, seeing Mark slide open the door. “There’s food in the fridge if you'd like some.”
I glance at the clock, realizing that it is almost seven. “What’s Nathan doing for dinner?”