Page 7 of Captive Rival: Armani
“How nice for you.” Turning back to the employee, I tell her, “Lead on.”
We go back to a private room with mood lighting, a cushy treatment table draped in fresh linens, and the scent of eucalyptus and lemongrass heavy in the air. I’m left with a soft cotton robe and told to undress and get comfortable. Once I’m lying down on the table, however, all I can do is mentally prepare myself for torture. This isn’t the first time I’ve been waxed within an inch of my life—I got a Brazilian when I was in college, after Juliana convinced me to go with her—but I swore I’d never do it again.
And yet here we are.
The ambiance is much better this time, at least. Relaxing New Age music plays from hidden speakers, and the table is comfortable and pleasantly warm against my back. Just when I start to think I might actually fall asleep, the door opens and an older woman bustles in wearing a pale green uniform.
The second she puts me in The Position, the soothing effect of the ambiance disappears. No amount of essential oils or ethereal flute song can make me forget what’s about to happen. I take a deep breath and remind myself that I survived my first Brazilian, and I can survive this one, too.
Much to my shock, the pain is nowhere near what I thought I remembered. Not that it’s a walk in the park, exactly. But it’s definitely bearable. And during my hot stone massage afterward, I actually do fall asleep. Then I get a facial, a mani-pedi, and some kind of acupressure scalp massage that has me practically floating on a cloud. Almost four hours have passed by the time I walk out of there.
I’m surprised to find Armani working on his iPad in the waiting area. I assumed he’d still be up the street at the coffee shop. He quickly puts his tablet away when he sees me.
“Shall we go to lunch?”
“You tell me. You’re the boss, aren’t you?” I say sarcastically.
Yes, my vulva is silky smooth, but it stings like a son of a bitch. It’s going to take a lot more than an excellent massage and a lunch date to make me warm up to Armani again.
“I know a great Italian place,” he says.
“I’m actually sick of Italian at the moment,” I say sourly.
He throws his head back and laughs, which only boils my blood more.
“Then we’ll do French. Come on.”
With that, he takes my arm and leads me out to the curb, where Donovan is waiting for us.
Admittedly, the restaurant Armani takes me to is superb. There’s a fig and goat cheese tart, a lobster salad, and a croque madame made with the best bechamel sauce I’ve ever tasted. But I keep my thoughts to myself, eating just enough to be polite, refusing to let my guard down for even a second.
“Dessert?” Armani asks as our plates are being cleared.
I stare at the wall behind his head. “Pass.”
“Are you just going to be pissy all day?” he says after a moment.
“Are you just going to treat me like a prisoner all day?”
“I hardly think this counts as prison,” he says, gesturing at the fancy décor around us.
“Perhaps you’re unfamiliar with the term ‘gilded cage,’” I shoot back. “I didn’t ask for any of this, nor do I want it. What I want is some answers.”
Armani’s impassive expression remains unchanged.
“You’re going to want some new things for this trip.”
I throw my hands up. “Oh, yes. For the vacation that I’m not allowed to know anything about.”
“It’s not a vacation.”
My cheeks grow hot with frustration. I don’t even bother asking for the millionth time what this trip is about, because I know he won’t tell me shit. As soon as the bill is paid, I stalk out of the restaurant. But I know better than to get too far ahead of Armani. Invisible or not, my leash is a short one.
Our final stop is a very posh boutique, so self-important that its front windows are full of spiny air plants and blown glass vessels suspended from wires instead of actual clothing. Just like the spa, I walk in to find we are the only guests inside the store. A stylist greets us as we enter and casually locks the door behind us. I shoot Armani a raised brow, but he doesn’t acknowledge me.
“Welcome, Mrs. Bellanti. Please follow me.”
I ignore the smug expression on my husband’s face.
