“As if,” I scoff, but the playful glint in my eye betrays my growing contentment. “I’m just getting our money’s worth.”
Our journey of decadence leads us next to the facial room, where estheticians with hands as soft as their voices set about nourishing our battle-worn faces. Creams, serums, and masks—each one promises rejuvenation and healing. I catch Khol’s gaze in the mirror, both of us covered in layers of product that are probably worth more than the stash we lifted last week.
“Your street cred might take a hit if anyone saw you now,” I tease, raising an eyebrow. “But you’re kind of adorable with all that shit all over you, looking like an insufferable trust fund baby getting ready for the Met Gala.”
“Number one, who got you into the Gala? And number two, they can fucking bring it,” he replies, confidence oozing from every pore now smoothed by the esthetician’s skilled touch. “They won’t look half as good as me—beforeandafter I beat them to a goddamn pulp.”
Be still my heart.
The last act of our morning symphony is the deep tissue massage. As strong hands work over my muscles, probing and coaxing them into submission, I can’t help but let out a sigh. It’s a sound of surrender, of letting go of the hardness I wear like armor. Khol says nothing, but his presence is a silent encouragement, reminding me it’s okay to lower my guard, just for a moment, just for today.
After we’ve been kneadedinto blissful oblivion, I’m sitting with my fingers spread out like a starfish, the nail technician’s brush gliding a glossy hue across each nail. I can’t help but smirk at the incongruity of it all—me, Fiadh, with nails that could now double as shiny, deadly weapons. “You know,” I muse aloud, watching Khol’s larger hands receive similar treatment, “I could probably still take someone down with these.”
“Of course you could,” Khol chuckles, not missing a beat. His eyes hold a spark of mischief as he inspects his own nails, now a deep, rich color. “And if they chip in the fray, I’ll personally see to their restoration. After all, we’ve got to look our best when we outshine the pretty prince tonight.”
“Deal,” I say, grinning at him.
My sister would lose her mind seeing this shit, but I’m kind of having fun with him.
We’re led next to the mud baths, a concoction of minerals and earth that promises to draw out toxins and imbue our skin with nutrients. The sensation of sinking into the warm, thick substance is alien, yet strangely comforting. As it envelops me, I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding and settle deeper into the bath.
“Who knew being covered in mud could feel so... comfy?” I remark, the irony not lost on me.
“Only the finest for our girl, courtesy of his royal rocker-ness,” Khol replies, his voice muffled slightly by the mask of mud over his face.
The laughter that bubbles up from my chest feels foreign in this temple of tranquility, but it’s genuine—a sound I’ve rarely allowed myself the luxury of expressing. We’re cocooned next, wrapped like precious artifacts in cloths steeped in herbs and oils. The scents are heady, intoxicating, seeping into my pores and lulling my senses into a state of repose I hadn’t known possible.
By the time we rinse off, my skin hums with a vitality that mirrors the newfound lightness in my soul. This day, this immersion inunadulterated indulgence, has taken the edge off a life usually lived at the sharpness of a knife’s blade.
“Feel different?” Khol asks as we step out, our robes clinging to our refreshed bodies.
“Like I’ve shed more than just dirt,” I admit, the confession slipping out before I can stop it.
“Good,” he says simply, a knowing look in his eyes that doesn’t need further words. “Just a few more treatments and we’ll be ready to face the shitshow.”
I think he’s being overly optimistic, but I guess we’ll find out.
The scentsof lavender and eucalyptus wrap around us, a fragrant shroud that beckons my weary body to surrender fully. I’m stretched out on a soft table, muscles yielding under the deft touch of the reflexologist, her hands coaxing harmony from the soles of my feet to the crown of my head.
“Relax, Fiadh,” Khol murmurs from the adjacent table, his voice low and steady amidst the whisper of bamboo flutes playing in the background. There’s a solidarity in his tone, an unspoken pact between us that today is about letting go of the harshness that usually defines our existence.
I peek through half-lidded eyes to see him with his head back, features softened in repose. The sight brings an unexpected warmth to my chest—this formidable man, known for his ruthlessness, is sharing in this vulnerability, encouraging mine.
“Who knew you’d make such a decent spa buddy?” I tease, aiming for levity but finding it undercut by the genuine affection threading through my words. “Feray and your brother are going to laugh their tails off.”
“Who knew you’d enjoy getting spoiled?” he counters without opening his eyes. “I think everyone will enjoy that tidbit.”
A laugh escapes me, softer this time, mingling with the aromatic mist filling the room. He’s right; the indulgence has seeped into my bones, and I can’t deny the buoyancy it’s brought to my spirit.
“Point taken,” I concede, allowing myself to sink deeper into the experience, each breath shedding the remnants of tension.
Hours slip by, marked only by the transition from one therapeutic treatment to the next. By the time the last session ends, the world feels different, as if viewed through a lens of serene clarity.
“Are you calm enough to face the crap our family found out today?” Khol asks as we rise, our movements languid.
“We don’t have a choice,” I reply, stepping into the plush slippers waiting beside the table.
We gather ourselves quietly, leaving behind the sanctuary of the spa. As we move through the marble corridors, I glance at Khol, finding his gaze already on me. There’s an acknowledgment there, a shared recognition of the transformation we’ve undergone—not just of body, but of mind and perhaps even soul.
