Chapter 4

At exactly 9:30 a.m., Alvin knocked on my bedroom door like a drill sergeant with a time fetish.

“Ma’am,” he called out. “Your ride is waiting.”

Ride?

Turns out that “ride” was a sleek black Range Rover, freshly waxed and glinting like it belonged in a Vogue spread. The interior smelled like vanilla, leather, and secrets.

My driver, Anthon, was built like a bodyguard and dressed like a runway model. His suit was sleek black, his red-gold tie was symmetrical to a fault, and he wore sunglasses like he was hiding a tragic backstory, or hiding that he was a spy and had a six-pack. He opened the door for me without a word, giving me a respectful nod and a small smile.

Of course, excited, I slid into the backseat and immediately sank into buttery-soft leather. “Wow.” The console had a glowing screen, mood lighting, and a built-in espresso holder like it was just normal. Espresso. Holder. Why am I not surprised?

Anthon glanced at me through the rearview mirror. “Comfortable, Mrs. William?”

I blinked. “You called me ‘Mrs. William.’ Do I… look like one?”

He smirked just a little and I think he rolled his eyes at me, “You’re wearing pajamas and a silk robe, ma’am. But we’ve seen worse.”

He drove like the road owed him respect—smooth, silent, and sharp around the corners. The traffic parted for us like he had magical powers or an elite parking pass from the gods.

Ten minutes later, we arrived at a boutique glass-front building with silver lettering that read:

LUXY SPA INC.

I kid you not. The building looked like a slice of heaven reserved for celebrities who needed weekly chakra realignments. The entire street was empty. No valets. No foot traffic. Just me, this absurd car, and the spa that glowed like the holy grail of skincare.

The moment I walked in, I felt like I was a celebrity. I was greeted by Jhena, a woman so pale, flawless, beautiful, and she was really tall it made me suspicious. She wore a creamy pink-gold silk robe, had shoulder-length hair, and greeted me with a bow.

“Mrs. William,” she mumbled, her tone reverent and professional. “Welcome. It’s a pleasure to host you.”

I looked around. The waiting area was empty. Music played softly—flutes and waterfalls, of course. The air smelled like eucalyptus, money, and faint betrayal.

I leaned in. “Is it… always this empty?”

Jhena hesitated. “Not usually, no. But we’ve reserved the whole facility for your private appointment today.”

I raised a brow. “Why?”

She hesitated again. Then whispered, “Because… this is one of Mr. William’s favorite spas for his—um—former companions.”

I squinted. “Former…?”

“Mistresses,” she clarified in a whisper, like we were part of a royal scandal. “But you’re the wife, ma’am. You’re different.”

My face twitched. “Oh. Am I?”

She smiled nervously. “we were all informed by Mr. Alvin that you are to be respected. Greatly. Anything less and…” she trailed off, made a slicing gesture across her neck, and tried to laugh it off.

“Wow,” I muttered, stepping further into the temple of exfoliation and insanity. “What a relaxing thought.”

Jhena gestured for me to follow her into a corridor lined with softly glowing scented wall sconces and dark gold-trimmed doors. Behind each, I assumed, were cucumbers, hot stones, and the ghosts of mistresses past and those classic paintings about hair…I don't know why it was there, it was ghostly and scary.

“You have the full royal spa package,” she said brightly, avoiding eye contact. “Body scrub, special massage, facial, mani-pedi, hair treatment, steam detox, and chakra cleanse just in case.”

“Chakra cleanse?” I asked.

“Optional,” she said. “Well, um–some mistresses said it helped them recover from heartbreak. You, of course, don’t need it. You’re… married to HIM.”

“Right,” I said, unable to stop the dry laugh. “Married.”

As the doors shut behind me and a very expensive robe was draped over my shoulders, I realized one thing:

I had entered my husband’s secret spa hideout.

And I had a long, luxurious day of pretending not to care ahead of me.

Let me begin by saying this—nothing could’ve prepared me for what happened next. Never in my life, I thought it would be painless.

You think you’re walking into a relaxing morning of pampering and self-love? NO! Bloody hell! NO! You are entering a battlefield armed only with a waffle pink robe, my sanity, my self esteem and my fear.

“Please remove your robe, Mrs. William.”

I blinked. “My what now?”

“Your robe.”

“Are you sure? But I just met you,” I whispered, clutching the fabric like it was my childhood support Peppa Pig stuff toys and I was four years old hearing lightning and thunder for the first time.

The technician—her name was Lina, and she looked like she flossed with silver steel cables and ate fear and discomfort for breakfast—smiled sweetly. That kind of terrifying sweet where your instincts scream, "Run. Now."

“Don’t worry, Mrs. Williams” she said, patting the table like it was a pet and not an execution platform. “I’ve done this a thousand times, no worries.”

“That’s what serial killers say, you know,” I muttered, but my legs had already started walking toward the table like they had a death wish. I felt pain just by thinking about it.

I propelled my body onto it with the kind of commitment usually reserved for drunk aunts trying to get into the middle of a conga line at a wedding. One second I was skeptical, the next second I was horizontal and surrendering my limbs to the gods of pain and beauty.

Lina, oblivious to my inner breakdown, yanked a heat lamp over my legs with mechanical cheer. “We’ll start with your legs. This will be easy.”

Lies.

The wax was lava hot, not warm, lava. She spread it over my shin with the precision of Michelangelo working on the Sistine Chapel—except instead of paint, it was napalm.

I relaxed a little. Maybe this wasn’t so bad—

RIPPPPP.

“AAAAAAAAAAGGGGGHHHHH!”

I let out a scream so loud, so primal, I’m certain somewhere in the distance a flock of birds exploded out of a tree in panic.

“WHAT WAS THAT?!”

“That was the hair coming out.” Lina looked proud. Like she’d just harvested a fine crop.

“ARE YOU SURE IT WAS JUST THE HAIR? I THINK YOU TOOK MY SKIN, MY SOUL, AND THREE PAST LIVES WITH IT!”

She just smiled and patted my leg. “Very good. One down. Only seventy-three more strips to go.”

SEVENTY-THREE?!

My brain short-circuited. I stared at the ceiling. I nearly cried. I may have actually cried. If my thigh had tear ducts, it would’ve sobbed.

When she moved to my underarms, I considered fleeing. But I couldn’t move. My dignity had died fifteen minutes ago and my soul had already left the building.

At this point, I began bargaining with the universe, like I owed it money.

“Dear God, if you let me live through this, I swear I’ll stop texting my ex when I’m drunk. Or at least I’ll delete his number before tequila enters the picture.”

That was not a plea. That was a contract between me and the Divine, signed in pain, sealed with sweat, and notarized by the screams I released in that Waxing Room of Betrayal. My body felt like it had been flayed by a medieval tax collector. Everything hurts. My legs. My underarms. My sense of dignity.

And don't even talk to me about my poor, poor bikini area.

She asked me again, with that terrifyingly calm voice, if I wanted “just a little touch-up down there.”

I looked her straight in the eye and said, “Woman, if you go near my little lady again, we are going to court.”

I clutched the sides of the table like it was the last lifeboat on the Titanic. My voice hit octaves only whales could understand. And she dares to smile?

“It’s included in the package,” she said innocently.

“You can keep the package!” I wheezed. “I don’t want it. I don’t want to scratch my precious lady garden for the next three days like a mangy raccoon!”

She blinked. “But it’s very smooth after.”

“Oh, I know. I’ve tried it before. It was a disaster. I couldn’t walk properly. I walked like a crab with regrets. My thighs were clapping like a round of applause. And yes, my ex was thrilled down there like it was a perfectly polished VIP lounge, but ME? I was one sneeze away from spontaneous combustion!”

I shook my head like a woman possessed. “Nope. No, thank you. I need her functional. I’ve made promises to myself—and to gravity.”

Lina looked like she wanted to argue, but I gave her my death glare. The one that says, “Try me and I’ll Google a curse in Latin.”

She backed off. Bikini wax declined. Sanity preserves.

Barely.

As I hobbled out of that room like a newborn baby giraffe after leg day, I started thinking about the ex. Because pain does that—it opens up the memory vault, and of course, mine was full of emotionally damaging men and tequila-flavored regrets.

Arman.

Ugh. The name itself tastes like expired wine.

British. Tall. Hair like a shampoo commercial. And the kind of accent that made me want to commit crimes and drink tea with pinkies out. He said things like “luv” and “fancy a pint?” and I swooned like a Jane Austen character in a heatwave.

We met in college, during my “I want to be mysterious and international” phase. Arman was in my British Literature class and spent the whole semester comparing Shakespeare to rap lyrics. I thought he was deep. Turns out, he was just shallow with an accent.

He cheated on me. With my best friend.

Cliché? Oh absolutely.

And like any reasonable person, I found them in her dorm room. Naked. Mid-thrust. Like something out of a trashy reality show called “Betrayal Dorm Diaries.”

I didn’t cry. Oh no. I went berserk.

Slapped the teabag out of his mouth. Punted a decorative pillow at my best friend’s head. Told Arman his accent didn’t make up for his two-inch... dignity.

And I walked out.

Like a queen. A sore, betrayed, mascara-smudged queen.

But here’s the problem.

When I get drunk? I forget I’m a queen. I become a clown. A sad, lonely, emotionally unstable clown with excellent cell service.

So sometimes, late at night... After wine or three shots of tequila, and maybe a sad K-drama episode playing in the background... I used to call him. Just to talk. Just to remember that once upon a time, I had someone to vent to—even if he was a cheating, tea-drinking goblin of a man.

And then I'd wake up in the morning with 12 unread messages, one of which always said:

“Still miss me, luv?”

No, Arman. I miss the accent. Not the lying tongue behind it.

I sighed, pressing my forehead to the cool glass of the spa’s reception counter as Jhena handed me my rose tea while I was fighting with my self-esteem like it had borrowed five hundred bucks and ghosted me.