Chapter 5
After the wax-induced trauma, I was led to the facial room by a woman named Soleil, who spoke with a calming tone and had the hands of a graceful assassin.
“This will help unclog your pores, Mrs. William,” she cooed.
What she didn’t say was that unclogging pores felt like being attacked by tiny, small armies of angry elves with toothpicks. I don't really like it. I felt so used, felt so vulnerable, and felt so abused.
“Just breathe through the pain,” she said while poking my face like she was testing for weak drywall.
I swear at one point I heard myself say, “Tell Goldy I love him,” just in case I died.
Now you’d think mani-pedis would be safe, right? WRONG.
The moment Belle and Margo, the twin nail techs, got to my cuticles, I realized I had no idea what kind of savagery nail trimming involved.
“You’re very tense, Mrs. Williams” Margo said gently.
“That’s because you’re coming at me with a blade, and I hate blades,” I hissed.
“Oh no, this is a gentle pusher.”
“That’s what Hannibal Lecter probably said!”
My toes were soaked, scrubbed, buffed, and tickled so much I nearly kicked Belle in the face. I apologized profusely. She told me it wasn't the first time. I told her I was feral and shouldn’t be pampered.
“I’m a cavewoman with a mortgage,” I sighed.
Belle nodded like she understood completely. “You’ll feel human by the end.”
Next up: The Hair Treatment Room, where Franz awaited me with scissors, confidence, and the flair of a man who has seen some things.
“Oh no, no, no, darling,” he said the moment I walked in. “This hair? This hair is stressed. It is begging for help. For freedom. For conditioner!”
I was about to defend myself, but he shushed me like a priest in a library.
“Today, we rescue her.”
Before I could speak, he doused my head in what felt like hot honey, massaged my scalp so intensely I saw my ancestors, and twisted my hair into foils like he was wrapping up fragile antique china.
“You will be reborn,” he whispered dramatically. “Trust Franz.”
I trusted Franz. Mostly because I had no other choice and he held the scissors like he was trained in fencing.
You’d think this was the part where I finally relaxed. You’d be wrong.
My massage therapist, Irina, looked like she could bench-press a tractor. She told me to lie face-down and “breathe.”
The moment she put her elbows into my back, I lost control of my entire vocabulary.
“WHAT KIND OF MASSAGE IS THIS?! I THINK YOU JUST SHIFTED MY SPINE INTO THE PAST!”
Irina said nothing. She just kept going.
I made noises I didn't know I was capable of. I grunted. I whimpered. I accused her of being a North Korean spy sent to break me emotionally and physically.
And when she finally reached my shoulders and cracked something that hadn’t moved since I was fifteen, I gasped, “Oh my god. Is that...is that relief?”
“Yes,” she said like a victorious gladiator. “This is healing.”
I was given a mirror after a makeup touch-up. I didn’t recognize myself. Woah! I looked like a real person and I looked... expensive. Effortless. Like I had never eaten a bag of Hot Cheetos while crying on the bathroom floor in my life.
Even my nails sparkled like they had stock options. But inside? Inside, I was a broken woman. Waxed. Plucked. Scrubbed. Prodded. And massaged into submission.
As I sipped the cucumber-mint detox water they handed me on the way out, I whispered, “War changes people.”
“How was the waxing?” Jhena asked brightly.
“I’ve seen battlefields with less trauma,” I whispered.
She blinked.
“Also,” I added, “If you see a man named Arman in the contacts list of a woman crying in a robe, delete him immediately. It’s for the safety of the nation.”
Then I limped out like a war survivor in flip-flops and an embroidered robe.
Anthon was waiting outside with the sleek black Range Rover, standing with military posture like the loyal royal bodyguard he was, and he opened the door with a solemn nod.
“You okay, ma’am?”
“No, Anthon,” I mumbled as I climbed into the plush, luxury leather seat with the grace of a penguin on crutches. “I’ve been emotionally violated and spiritually exfoliated.”
He nodded. “Should I call the spa manager?”
“No, just drive. Preferably to a place where feelings don’t exist.”
As we glided down the road, I gazed out the tinted window, clutching my rose tea and trying to forget my sins.
No more waxing. No more Arman. And no more tequila without supervision.
Goldy the fish was going to hear everything tonight.
The next few days blurred into a glittery, exhausting spiral of silk, sequins, and sore feet. I swear on Goldy’s life—I was one Gucci heel away from shattering into sparkly pieces like an emotionally overwhelmed chandelier. Being rich was indeed tiring and hard.
It all started with Granny.
Sweet, harmless Granny, who looked like a retired tea sommelier but had the stamina of a caffeinated teenager and the bank account of a Bond villain.
“Let’s go shopping, darling!” she chirped with innocent joy, right before dragging me into a retail vortex so posh, I started sweating in fear every time I accidentally touched a price tag.
We didn’t shop. We attacked. Designer stored bowed at our feet. A saleslady at Chanel cried actual tears when Granny bought six limited editions handbags like she was grabbing apples from a basket.
“Do you like this Valentino dress, dear?” she asked me, holding up something so shiny I could see my reflection and my past mistakes.
“I think it costs more than my college education, Granny” I whispered.
“That’s fine. Education’s overrated,” she winked.
By the end of the day, my arms were so sore from carrying bags, I was one espresso away from becoming a human coat rack. I tried to say no, I really did—but Granny was a tactical spender. She was the mother of all shopaholic. One moment I was saying, “I’m just looking,” and the next I owned a full rack of silk robes, seventeen shades of lipstick with names like “Millionaire Whisper” and “Duchess in Heat,” and a diamond hair clip shaped like a shrimp.
Yes. A shrimp.
Then came the dinner.
She took me to a restaurant so fancy, they didn't serve food. They curated experiences. The water had a French accent so thick I almost asked if he needed a glass of water. The menu looked like a Latin spellbook.
“I’ll have... uh... the... uh... Blanquette de Veau aux Morilles avec un Soupçon de Truffe Blanche?” I said, pronouncing exactly zero syllables correctly.
“You ordered veal,” Granny whispered.
“Great. I thought it was a hat.”
The food arrived looking like abstract art. My veal was placed like it had just landed gently from heaven. One edible flower was perched on top, probably handpicked by unicorns. I took a bite and nearly wept. It tasted like angel, money and secrets.
But that wasn’t the end. Oh no. Because next up, Granny brought me to a casino. Like an actual casino. Red carpet, velvet ropes, chandeliers, and men who looked like they owned oil. I walked in wearing a new green cocktail dress and heels high enough to threaten aviation laws.
She marched to the blackjack table with the confidence of a war general and won twelve thousand dollars within the hour.
I, on the other hand, lost all my chips before I even learned how the game worked.
“What’s hitting?” I whispered to the dealer.
“Ma’am, you already busted.”
“How dare you.”
Then there was golf. Granny said, “Let’s go golfing, dear,” and I assumed she meant mini-golf or maybe watching it on TV.
No. She meant real golf. On a sprawling estate with a judge and a mayor named Marvin who wore pink pants and called me “kiddo.” I showed up in yoga pants and a sunhat that was mostly drama.
“Swing like you’re angry at your ex!” Granny yelled.
“I don’t have the arm strength for my emotional damage!”
I hit the ball, missed, spun in a circle, and nearly stabbed Mayor Marvin with a 9-iron. He laughed. I cried.
My life became a kaleidoscope of glamour and confusion. Every night, I collapsed into bed with aching feet, sore arms, and a full stomach of truffle pasta or imported caviar I pretended to enjoy even though it tasted like salty regret. My new closet looked like a boutique exploded—dresses, heels, boots, bags, and things I didn't even know how to wear. What does one even do with a fur-lined corset? Wear it? Fight crime in it?
So I started talking to Goldy. My fish. He was the only living creature in that penthouse who didn’t judge me.
“I miss cheap noodles and wearing pajamas to dinner,” I whispered into his bowl. “Do you know how much pressure it is to be elegant? I farted in a silk gown today and it made a swoosh sound.”
Goldy blinked. He understood.
Then, one night… It happened.
After another exhausting dinner involving six forks and a man named Lorezo who cried over mozzarella, I waddled back to my bedroom in my fancy pajamas (they had feathers), ready to cuddle with my anxiety and maybe binge an old K-drama.
Until I heard it.
A knock.
Then—the door opened.
I froze mid-stretch.
And in walked a man. My husband. Art Freaking William
He moved like a beautiful shadow. Stumbled a little. Smelled like whiskey, expensive cologne, and problems. He loosened his tie, walked right past me, and collapsed on my bed like he owned it.
Technically, he did.
I screamed. Like an actual dramatic movie heroine scream, complete with flailing arms and exaggeration.
He didn’t even flinch. Just rolled over and groaned something like, “Ugh. Soft bed. Finally.”
I stood there. By the bed. Wide-eyes.
What the heck? Why was he back already?
A silk-feather pajama-clad wife. With a fish. And a man in my bed who smelled like cocktails and potential lawsuits.
What now?