Page 12 of Give It a Day (Song-Smith #1)

I lose track of time, bathing myself with pleasantly fragrant soap. Surprisingly, during this time, I haven’t worried over how our family’s metaphoric ship is staying afloat at the moment. A freeing realization.

But now that it comes back to mind, I’m worrying over my parents. Where are they? What are they doing? Do they need me to rescue them?

That’s when I shake my head, swallow down my intrusive thoughts, and snap back to the present reality, even though I’m pretty rattled.

After some time, I’ve been soaking long enough that my fingers are turning pruney, but I don’t care.

I’m having that kind of day where I’m one wrong look away from punching someone in the throat.

Not that I could get away with it now. I agreed with Damon to play the well-behaved, happy wife—to give this arranged marriage a real chance, where I’m sure to convince him I’m a hellish choice for a life partner, business purposes or otherwise.

And afterward, I can convince him to annul this marriage. Then, I can move on with my life.

A life where…I’m going to worry about my parents and do everything it takes to keep us afloat, even if it means it’s in a sea of blood.

I blink and see the bathwater around me as blood. Red, thick, coppery blood. My heart thuds. My breath holds. I have to be seeing things. Am I that stressed out?

I blink again and see the bathwater as it really is—clear, splashing around now that I’m hurriedly stepping out of the tub.

It’s only been a while since I arrived at this mansion, but it already feels like I’m trapped in some bizarre fever dream.

I try to distract myself from my worries, and my mind oddly thinks of Damon. Pretty boy, stormy eyes, lightning-in-a-bottle Damon. He’s impossible —all sharp edges and overwhelming confidence, with just enough charm that makes me want to slap him and kiss him at the same time.

I could daydream about him all day, but a knock on the door drags me back to reality—thank god because I do not want to accept that I might probably definitely have a crush on the devil.

“Come in,” I call, reaching for my robe to preserve what’s left of my dignity.

But whoever’s on the other side of the door doesn’t turn the knob and enter. Instead, a meek feminine voice reaches my ears. “Mrs. Song-Smith? I’m Elle. I’ll be your stylist in preparation for the reception. Please take your time. I’ll be waiting outside.”

They’re really going all out on this. I knit my brows but call out through the closed door, “Okay, thanks. ”

I put the robe on and leave, letting the steam out. Once it clears, a young woman is in front of me with a small smile. She’s a bit shorter than me. With brown hair and blue eyes, she’s a welcome and adorable sight after the day I’ve had.

“Hello, Mrs. Song-Smith. It’s a pleasure to meet you,” she says with a smile that seems a bit nervous now. So I disarm her with warmth to show she has nothing to be afraid of.

My eyes move with my smile returning hers. “Hi, Elle, wasn’t it?” She nods and sees the garment bag hanging and grabs it. “I hope you can perform miracles because you got your work cut out for you.”

Her blue eyes are bright when they pinch. “Seems like light work.”

She takes the dress out of the garment bag and gives me the room to change into it.

The white-pink fabric shimmers in the light, stunning but slightly too tight around the chest and waist. When I tell Elle she can come in again, she assesses the dress, then pulls out a sewing kit.

“The dress needs a little adjustment,” she says. “But it’ll fit perfectly in no time.”

I watch as she works, her hands deft and precise, letting out the seams of the silk-like dress.

To pass the time, I make small talk. “So, Elle, tell me a bit about yourself. How does someone get this talented at handling silk?”

She frowns slightly, thoughtful, before offering a polite smile.

It’s not wide, but it doesn’t seem fake either.

A quiet moment lingers between us, maybe because she’s concentrating, making sure she doesn’t accidentally stab me with a sewing needle.

Thankful for that! Then, with a small shrug, she answers meekly, “I suppose it comes naturally to me.”

“And you enjoy your work? Being a stylist, I’m guessing?

” I glance at her curiously as she nods, looking distracted as she puts her finishing touches on my dress.

Elle’s wearing all black, and though it’s giving funeral vibes—which feels fitting because being with Damon will surely be the death of me—she looks radiant.

Her hair falls in elegant waves, her face flawless.

“You seem like you know your stuff,” I add, grinning, feeling comfortable for the first time today, like I’m in good hands for once.

Another quiet moment stretches between us, making me wonder if Elle is just shy, or maybe she’s like me—a woman with too many secrets.

Or, more likely, I just talk too damn much.

But then, she gives me a wider, sheepish smile.

“How nice of you to say that. Hopefully, you’ll still feel the same way after I do your hair and makeup.

” She steps back, admiring her work, then gestures for me to check the nearby vanity mirror.

When I turn to look at myself, I almost gasp.

“Wow. Is that really me?” I ask, caught off guard by my own reflection. I turn slightly, seeing how the fabric clings in a way that’s just shy of indecent, hugging my figure in all the right places without making me feel like I’m on display. The adjustments are perfect.

For the next while, Elle moves on to my skincare and makeup, working on my natural features with her careful touch.

At one point, she asks if I’d like to show off the tiny scar under my left eye.

I tell her no—I hide it as often as I can.

She pouts at that, just a little, so subtle I wouldn’t have noticed if she weren’t working so close to my face.

Then, my hair. It’s a frizzy, wavy mess after my bath. I tell Elle I want it as straight as possible, making it easier to manage. If I can’t control anything today, at least I can keep my hair under control.

Elle steps back, her hands clasped, and gives me a small smile. “You look beautiful, ma’am.”

“Oh, no, don’t ma’am me. My mom is ‘ma’am’. I am not my mom. Call me Kaye.” I tilt my head as I stare at my reflection. “I look like the chandelier in the bathroom. Have you seen that thing?”

She laughs lightly, packing up her tools.

“Thank you for everything, Elle.”

She humbly shakes her head as if she didn’t just make me look like an actual blushing bride .

“Will you be attending the reception?” Catching her reluctant look, I add, “I hope you will.”

Elle grins, looking grateful as she nods. “That’s quite kind of you, ma’am—I mean, Kaye.”

I watch her pack, and I let her leave, even though she’s the only sane person I’ve met all day. It’d be so nice to have her warm presence around, while the weight of the afternoon ahead presses down on me like the fitted fabric of this dress.

But I’ve taken down operations with my stealth. I’ve taken down armed idiots who had their weapons pointed at me . So I remind myself I can survive this reception party for the night, and the brief entirety of this ridiculous arranged marriage with Damon.

“Alright, Kaye.” I give myself a little pep talk in the mirror as soon as Elle leaves. “Try not to punch Damon. Just kiss him instead. No punching, only kissing. If you feel like punching him, kiss him.” I nod at myself, forcing a smile. “Oh, he’s going to get so many kisses.”

Then I check my phone to look at the time, but really, I’m checking to see if my parents have tried to reach me at all. But there’s nothing. Nothing .

What a great time to get drunk. Or at the very least, tipsy. Like, super tipsy. So I leave the room and head out into the maze of halls, hoping I find some good ol’ liquid courage.