Chapter Eighteen
Ted POV
My opinion is invalid.
Okay, technically it's valid, but it holds no actual power. Not when I'm caught between two whirlwind forces of nature: Thieran Alden and Luca Mel. I've said, repeatedly, that I don't need new clothes. I said I'm fine. Comfortable.
That I own at least four different shirts and a decent hoodie. That should count for something, right?
Wrong.
Despite all protests, they proceed to buy everything. I mean everything. Casual loungewear, silk shirts, pants that mold to my form like some kind of second skin, sweaters softer than anything I've ever touched, coats I've only seen on magazine covers, and shoes—so many shoes. Apparently I need sandals for beach lounging, formal shoes for events, sneakers for walks, and indoor slippers.
They even argue over color palettes.
At some point, I stop resisting and become a living mannequin. I let them tug clothes over my head and spin me around in front of ornate mirrors.
I don't even recognize myself by the time we're done. Looking at the final outfit—neutral cream slacks and a pale button-up with embroidered detailing at the collar—I feel like I'm pretending. Like a kid trying on an older sibling's fancy wardrobe, waiting to be caught and scolded.
But when I turn toward them, Luca and Thieran high-five like they've just saved the world.
Then they take me to the last stop.
It's a gloomy-looking shop tucked away in a side street—its façade dim, with flickering signage and a heavy curtain at the entrance. It doesn't feel like a shop. It feels like a cross between an apothecary, an underground speakeasy, and a spa.
"Frida! We brought you someone!" Thieran announces with pride, pushing me forward by the small of my back.
A shadow looms.
A very large figure steps out from behind a beaded curtain. For a second, I consider running. The air feels charged, thick with some unknown energy.
The lights click on with a mechanical thrum, revealing the figure—a towering woman with broad shoulders, a thick beard, and elegant eyes lined with shimmering shadow. Her presence is divine. Intimidating and oddly comforting at once.
She looks me up and down.
"Hmmm," she says finally. That's it. Just hmmm. And I'm terrified.
"Trust us," Luca says, pulling me back with one of his dazzling smiles.
"Frida has the hands of an angel. It'll change your life."
They disappear into the lounge area, lounging on plush velvet couches like they own the place. I'm guided to the center of the room, past steam-filled dividers and counters filled with tiny labeled bottles. There are stations for hair, nails, massages, facials—everything.
Frida instructs me to strip down.
I hesitate. Blink.
"Everything," she repeats, unbothered. I obey like a stunned animal.
She inspects my body like I'm a project she's been assigned by fate. She hums disapprovingly at my cracked heels. Tuts at my neglected cuticles. Raises an eyebrow at my scalp.
"You've been washing your hair with what?" she says, horrified.
"Uh. Soap? Sometimes. If I have time."
The look she gives me makes me consider running again.
Then she begins.
I don't know how long I'm in that chair. Time blurs. My legs turn to jelly. She massages muscles I didn't know I had. She washes my hair with firm, methodical care, as if purging years of neglect. There's scrubbing. Trimming. Buffing. Oiling.
It's not gentle, but it's not cruel either. It reminds me of a mother cat grooming a kitten—sharp, thorough, a little humiliating, but undeniably affectionate in its own way.
She plucks and trims. Shapes and sculpts.
I get a lecture about self-care, routines, and the importance of exfoliation. Most of it goes over my head, but she repeats it three times. Then she hands me a list.
"Follow this religiously," she says, voice brooking no argument. I nod like a chastised schoolboy.
When I finally leave her chair, I feel like I've been reborn.
I'm handed a bag filled with bottles. Shampoos, conditioners, face oils, moisturizers, serums, some kind of serum-booster hybrid. It's heavy.
As we exit the salon, the sky has shifted to deep twilight. The air outside is cool and soft, buzzing with the scent of blossoms. Lamps lining the street cast golden pools of light on cobbled paths. This part of Alden Island is even more magical in the dark.
I pass a glass wall—maybe the window of a boutique—and pause.
There's someone there.
I almost don't recognize him.
His skin glows. His hair falls in gentle waves, shaped and styled. His clothes fit like they were made for him—and maybe they were. He looks taller. Lighter.
Me.
It's me.
"Wow," I murmur.
"Told you," Luca says, stepping beside me. His green eyes sparkle under the lamp light.
"Frida works miracles."
Behind him, Thieran gives me a thumbs-up like a proud older sibling.