Brutal Prince Bonus Scene (Brutal Birthright, #1.5)(24)

He thinks Aida has some vulnerable side?

I doubt it.

She’s an animal, just like her brothers.

Which means she needs to be broken.

Oliver wasn’t able to tame her—she ran right over him. Made a fool of him, publicly. Well, she’s not doing that to me. If Aida is a rock, then I’m the fucking ocean. And I’m going to beat against her, over and over, wearing her down one pebble at a time. Until I’ve broken her up and swallowed her whole.





9





Aida





The whole next week is wasted in idiotic wedding planning. Imogen Griffin is handling most of it, because the Griffins are control freaks and my family doesn’t give a shit what the wedding looks like. Still, she expects me to approve seating arrangements and flowers and meal plans like I give a crap about any of it.

Spending time with Callum’s family is bizarre. I still can’t shake the feeling that they’re going to jump me any time I’m alone with them. Yet there’s this make-believe between us, where they pretend like all of this is genuine, and I’m supposed to play along, like I’m actually some blushing bride-to-be and their daughter-in-law.

I can’t figure out Imogen. From the outside, she looks like your typical wealthy socialite: blonde, perfectly coiffed, always speaking in cultured tones. But I can tell she’s intelligent, and I suspect she’s much more heavily involved in the Griffins’ business than she lets on.

The wedding will be small, since it’s taking place so quickly, but she still insists I need a proper dress. So that’s why I’m in Bella Bianca, trying on wedding gowns in front of Nessa, Riona, and Imogen.

I don’t have any female family members to invite, not that I’d want to involve them in this farce anyway.

Nessa is the most excited, pulling down dress after dress for me to try on, then clapping her hands and squealing over every one. They’re all puffy princess dresses and ball gowns, ridiculously exaggerated like a cartoon brought to life. Half the time I get lost in the tulle, and Nessa has to pull down the various layers and turn it all around and zip me upright.

Even though I hate every one of them, I can’t help laughing at her infectious energy. She’s so sweet with her big brown eyes and her pink cheeks.

“Why don’t you try some on, too?” I ask her.

“Oh, no,” she shakes her head, blushing hard enough to drown out her freckles. “I couldn’t do that.”

“Why not? There’s a million of them. It’ll go way faster if you help me.”

“Well . . .”

I can see she’s dying to do it. I shove one of the puffiest dresses into her arms.

“Come on, let’s see it.”

Nessa goes to change. Sighing with resignation, I pull on dress number sixty-seven. It weighs about a hundred pounds and has a train longer than Princess Diana’s.

Nessa comes out looking like the dancer she is, her slender neck rising from the bodice of the gown, the skirt as puffy as a tutu.

“What do you think?” she says, twirling around on the raised dais. Now she looks like one of those music-box ballerinas

“I think you’re the one that should be getting married,” I say to her. “It suits you way better.”

I reach out my hands so we can dance around together. Our skirts are so huge that we have to bend way over to even reach each other. Nessa falls off the dais, landing unharmed in the massive puff of her own skirt. We both burst out laughing.

Riona watches us, unsmiling.

“Hurry up,” she snaps. “I haven’t got all day to spend on this.”

“Just pick one, then,” I bark back at her. “I don’t give a shit which dress I wear.”

“It’s your wedding dress,” Imogen says, in her calm, cultured voice. “It has to speak to you. It has to resonate. Then someday you can pass it down to your own daughter.”

My stomach gives a lurch. She’s talking about some fictional daughter I’m supposed to have with Callum Griffin. The idea of waddling around pregnant with his baby makes me want to rip off this skirt and sprint out of the store. This place is stuffed with so much pure-white tulle, beading, sequins, and lace that I can barely breathe.

“I really don’t care,” I tell Imogen. “I’m not that into dresses. Or clothes in general.”

“That’s obvious,” Riona says tartly.

“Yeah,” I snap, “I don’t dress like Corporate Barbie. How’s that working out for you, by the way? Does your dad let you take notes on his meetings, or do you just stand there looking pretty?”

Riona’s face turns as red as her hair. Imogen interrupts before Riona can retort.

“Maybe something a little simpler would appeal to you, Aida.”

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.