Total pages in book: 82
Estimated words: 74487 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 372(@200wpm)___ 298(@250wpm)___ 248(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 74487 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 372(@200wpm)___ 298(@250wpm)___ 248(@300wpm)
* * *
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?”
* * *
“He’s already eaten.” The disappointment must have shown on my face. “You won’t be having your meals together, not unless he needs you for some reason. I’ll be sure to let you know in advance, if I can.”
* * *
There’s no reason for me to be irritated by the news. As it has so clearly been explained to me, this isn’t a romance. We aren’t dating, or courting, or anything in that vein. Think of this as a job, Candace. I am your new employer. I push to my feet and smile at the man. “I’m actually starving. Could you show me the food?”