Brutal Prince (Brutal Birthright)

Imogen motions to the attendant, requesting several dresses by number and designer name. She obviously did her research before she came. I don’t care what she picked out. I just want this to be over. I’ve never pulled up so many zippers in my life.

I don’t know what happened to my mother’s dress. But I do know what it looked like—I have a picture of her on her wedding day. She’s sitting in a gondola in Venice, right in the bow of the boat, the long, lace train trailing over the bow, almost touching the pale green water. She’s looking right at the camera, haughty and elegant.

Actually, one of the dresses Imogen selected is a little like my mother’s—caplet sleeves trailing off the shoulders. A fitted bodice with a sweetheart neckline. Old-fashioned lace, but no puffiness. Just smooth, simple lines.

“I like this one,” I say hesitantly.

“Yes,” Imogen agrees. “That off-white suits you.”

“You look STUNNING,” Nessa says.

Even Riona doesn’t have anything disparaging to say. She just tilts up her chin and nods.

“Let’s wrap it up, then,” I say.

The attendant takes the dress, fretting over the fact that we don’t have time to get it altered before the wedding.

“It fits fine,” I assure her.

“Yes, but if you took it in just a little at the bust—”

“I don’t care,” I say, shoving it into her arms. “It’s good enough.”

“I’ve booked girls to do your hair and makeup the morning of the wedding,” Imogen tells me.

That sounds like way more fuss than necessary, but I force myself to smile and nod. It’s not worth fighting over—there will be plenty of things to brawl about later.

“Callum has booked a spa day for you as well, the day before the wedding,” Imogen says.

“That’s really not necessary,” I tell her.

“Of course it is! You’ll want to relax and be pampered.”

I don’t like relaxing or being pampered.

This is how Imogen Griffin gets her way, I’m sure—telling you how it’s going to be with a light tone and polite smile on her face. Acting like any resistance would be the height of uncouthness, so you’re shamed into going along.

“I’m busy,” I tell her.

“It’s already booked,” Imogen says. “I’ll send a car around at nine to pick you up.”

I’m about to say, I won’t be there, but I force myself to take a deep breath and swallow down the instinctive rebelliousness. It’s just a spa day. They’re trying to be nice, in their own pushy, prissy way.

“Thank you,” I say through gritted teeth.

Imogen gives me a tight smile.

“You’ll be the perfect bride,” she says.

It sounds more like a threat than a compliment.

Each day is whipping by faster than the one before. When the wedding was two weeks away, it seemed like a lifetime. Like anything could happen in between to call it off.

But now it’s only three days away. Then two. Then, it’s actually happening tomorrow, and I’m waiting outside my house for Imogen’s stupid town car to pick me up, to take me to some spa day that I neither want nor need.

I know they want to pluck me and exfoliate me and rub off all my rough edges, making me some smooth, soft little wifey for the scion of their family. The great Callum Griffin. He’s their JFK, and I’m supposed to be their Jackie Kennedy.

I’d rather be Lee Harvey Oswald.