Chapter 18

“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 Calester Green. He’s their JFK, and I’m supposed to be their Jackie Kennedy.

I’d rather be Lee Harvey Oswald.

Still, I stuff down all my irritation and let the driver take me to a posh spa on Walton Street.

It’s not so bad to begin with. Calester really did book the works. The aestheticians soak my feet and paint my fingers and toes. They have me sit in a gia