by Tessa Bailey
The phone on his desk rang in a jarring trill, forcing him to release me. He walked to it and punched a button. “This is Royce.”
Macalister’s voice filtered through the electronic speaker and turned my bones to ice. “You should have told me she was a virgin.” I pictured the irritation on his face. “Of course, they ate that up. The board loves her.”
Royce glanced over his shoulder and flashed a sly smile. Oh, my God. This was the ‘ace up my sleeve’ he’d mentioned. Once again, I was annoyed by how big of a deal men made about women’s virginity.
“I guess it went well?” he asked his father.
“She was . . . surprising,” Macalister said. “I told her this already, but just to be clear—you don’t touch her before the initiation.”
Royce’s smile soured. “I understand.”
There was rustling on the other end, followed by a distinct click as his father hung up.
* * *
I stood in the dressing room of the designer dress shop, watching the Instagram notifications blow up my phone.
The week following the interview had been worse than the previous.
My preparation lessons with Alice had been replaced with meetings about Royce’s party. Since I had passed the first stage of the approval process, things grew more serious. Being Royce’s wife basically meant I’d be a project manager. I’d be tasked with planning events and making all the decisions he couldn’t be bothered with.
This was my audition.
I’d sat in on meetings with florists about centerpieces and inspected table linen samples, all while Alice watched over and second-guessed every decision I’d been forced to make. I didn’t care whether the tables were round or long rectangles, or if the invitations were embossed or letterpress.
But I pretended I did. I smiled and nodded and Instagrammed what she encouraged me to. I developed the narrative of the happy girlfriend swept away with excitement at planning a celebration for the man of her dreams. I played the role everyone wanted me to be.
Everyone, except for me.
Each selection I made felt like I was blindly filling in a test answer bubble, praying it was right. Once the RSVPs started to come in, it became more complicated. Everyone wanted to be there. This was going to be the party of the decade. It had been thirteen years since anyone had ascended to the board, and Royce wasn’t going to be just any board member—he was supposed to take over for Macalister when his father retired.
Media outlets wanted in on the celebration. Once it was clear I was Royce’s girlfriend and in charge of his party, I’d started getting requests from everywhere. People who’d shunned me in high school were suddenly obnoxiously friendly. Style editors and Instagram influencers followed me and sent direct messages, hoping to score an invite.
I tried not to let it go to my head, but it was a trip.
All those people who had treated me like I had a social disease were suddenly climbing over each other to be my friend. The petty part of me enjoyed it a little.
Alice’s favorite designer was in Boston for a trunk show, and she’d scheduled an appointment for both of us this evening. I hadn’t known Royce was coming until he’d appeared on the couch in the lobby of the store, looking annoyingly sexy. He’d come straight from the office, and his tie was stuffed haphazardly in the pocket of his blue suit coat.
“Why are you here?” I made a face. I hadn’t meant for it to come out so forceful. I was tired, and I didn’t like him seeing the person I had to be when Alice was around.
He smirked, unfazed by my tone. “I need to know what you’re going to be wearing so I can coordinate.”
“I’m sure I could send you a picture.”
He tossed up a hand in surrender. “Okay. I wanted to have a say in the decision.”
Like his father, Royce liked having control.
Donna Willow, the dress designer, was the embodiment of her name. Her head was a mop of wispy white hair and she was so slender, the collection of bracelets jangling on her wrists looked like they might break her arms. When Alice introduced us, Donna gave me a once-over and a pleasant smile.
“My fall collection is all jewel tones,” she said, nodding to herself. “Lots of options, but I already have a dress in mind for you.”
Gowns were pulled for me to try on, and then I was shepherded toward a dressing room.
“This is just to get an idea. I’ve got clips for whatever is too big.” She pointed to the glittering, fluffy assortment of dresses hanging on the rack. “I’m confident the red strapless number will be your dress, but we’ll start with the blue one just for fun.” Her eyes sparkled. “We don’t want this over too quickly.”
I gave a smile and hoped she couldn’t see it was pained.
Once the door shut, my face fell. I should have been excited. This was basically every little girl’s dream, trying on fancy dresses for the big ball. I even had the Prince Charming already lined up.
Except it was fabricated.
Would my relationship with Royce grow to become more than just fiction?
I retrieved my phone from my purse, snapped a picture of the rack of gowns, and posted it to my feed. I fed the lie with a question of which dress I should try on first, followed by a bunch of happy, vapid hashtags.
“Nice,” Alice said when I emerged from the fitting room wearing the blue mermaid style dress.
I went up the step to stand on the platform in front of the mirrors and take it in. Its high neck had beaded embellishments that wrapped around my throat and I couldn’t help but feel strangled.
Alice sat on the cream-colored couch and Royce in a gold armchair beside it, and his gaze met mine through the mirror.
“It’s just okay to me,” he said.
“Agreed,” Donna concluded. “Try the black one next.”
The second dress was far more comfortable, but I didn’t have to see my reflection to know it wasn’t right. Three frowns greeted me when I appeared from the fitting room.
“No,” Donna said, before sending me back. “The waistline is too high.”
I stood in the small, mirrorless room, staring at the notifications as they popped up on my screen, one after another. People seemed to like the curated Marist Northcott a hell of a lot more than the real one. I hurled my phone in my purse and reminded myself it was pointless to be upset. I was doing what I had to. Macalister’s deal said I was supposed to be the girl everyone wanted to be.
My gaze landed on the red dress.
Frowns weren’t waiting for me when I rounded the corner and stepped into view. Alice inhaled sharply and clasped a hand to her chest. Donna’s proud smile was enormous. I didn’t risk a glance at Royce at first. Instead, I grasped the sides of skirt and stepped up onto the platform, took in a breath, and raised my eyes to the mirror.
My own reflection turned me to stone.
The strapless dress was the color of power and sin. Below the waist, the red corseted bodice burst into tulle rosettes in varying shades of crimson and scarlet, flowing down to the floor and trailing behind me in a short train.
Who knew fabric could be so transformative?
I suddenly felt like I could do this. I could wear this beautiful costume when it was announced to the world I was about to become the princess of the Hale dynasty. That Royce had chosen me. I’d don a smile on my face that wouldn’t be much of a lie, and it was because of the way he was looking at me right now.
His lush lips parted, but he didn’t seem to be breathing. He stared at me as if the world turned at my command. I’d always thought his eyes were hungry, but that hunger was the hunt for signs of weakness. For mistakes and dark secrets people hoped to conceal.
His hunger now was something else entirely.
Unabashed desire drenched his expression. He held my gaze so long my knees softened, and my cheeks warmed with a flush. Had he forgotten we weren’t alone? It was indecent the way he stared at me. There was no mistaking what he craved.
Perhaps I wasn’t Medus
a, but Persephone. Royce was Hades, the king of the underworld. He’d come to carry me down into his dark world, make me his unwilling bride and his queen.
She didn’t stay unwilling, did she?
The myth said once Persephone had been granted her freedom by Zeus, lovesick Hades tricked her into eating pomegranate seeds. This meant she had to return to her husband in the underworld.
In some versions, Persephone ate the seeds knowingly. She wanted the excuse to return to him.
The women in the room were thankfully oblivious. They both rushed toward me.
“You’ll wear your hair up,” Alice said. She gathered my hair in her hands and held it against the crown of my head.
Donna’s cold fingers slipped into the back of the dress and tugged it tight. “It’ll have to be taken in.”
“Earrings?” Alice asked the designer. “Or necklace? I don’t want to ruin the neckline.”
There was no discussion if this was the right one, and Royce hadn’t given his approval. I turned and looked at him over my shoulder while the women continued to fuss at me. “Do you like it?”
“I do.” His voice was thick like honey. “Very much.”
God, that stare. My mouth went dry.
For the first time ever, I wanted the initiation to get here quicker. All the sooner we’d both be able to satisfy our cravings.
* * *
I stood in the kitchen and lay my hands flat on the countertop to prevent myself from hurling the stack of envelopes at my mother. I was livid. So angry, it solidified my muscles and made my back ache from the weight of it.
It had been a month since Macalister had shattered my world. And in that time, miraculously, no bills had arrived.
Last week I’d started going through the mail as soon as I was home from my appointments with Alice or the event coordinator. But there’d been nothing. Not even an electric bill.
Something wasn’t right. Macalister had said the house was in default, so there would be notices. Foreclosing wasn’t something that just happened overnight. It was a long, tedious process with a paper trail. Even if he’d stopped his bank’s foreclosure, it’d take days before the system processed it.
This morning I’d told my family I’d be gone all day, but I’d lied. At one o’clock, I’d lurked in the guest bedroom upstairs that had the best view of the driveway, and I waited. The mail truck rumbled up twenty minutes later and deposited a thick stack of envelopes into our mailbox. It had only just pulled away when my mother walked down the drive.
My suspicions rose exponentially as she stood at the mailbox, sorting the letters into two piles. Maybe she was weeding out the junk mail, but in my gut, I knew it was wishful thinking. As she disappeared from view and back into the house, I closed my eyes and said a little prayer.
Downstairs, there were footsteps as my mother moved around in the kitchen. A cabinet door creaked open and then thumped shut. More sounds as the water ran in the sink.
I’d seen my mother do dishes before, but up until recently, it had been a rare occurrence. Delphine had been let go, and we were all feeling the loss, but my mother had been hit the hardest. Not just in housework and meals, either. Delphine had been part of our family.
I forced myself to sound light and casual. “Hey. Did the mail come yet?”
“Oh, I didn’t know you were home.” She bobbed her head in a nod. “It’s there on the counter.” She used one wet hand to point to the stack, and a sickening, sour taste filled my mouth.
“Where’s the rest of it?”
“What?” she asked over the running water.
My voice was loud and pointed. “The rest of the mail, Mom.”
She stilled. Slowly, she turned off the water and turned to face me, her panic barely disguised. “I don’t know what you mean.”
Shit, she was a terrible liar. I strode over to the cabinets that weren’t used often, throwing open the doors, one after another, searching.
“Marist, stop,” she cried.
It only fueled me to keep going. When I reached for the next one, she sucked in a deep breath. It was because when I jerked the door open, I was meet with several shelves of mail. The cabinet was fucking full.
Weeks’ worth of bills had been hidden here.
I scooped out a stack of letters in disbelief, some of them spilling onto the counter below. There were red ‘past due’ and ‘urgent’ stamps on a few. Not a single one had been opened. I set my hands on the counter, infuriated and crushed with disappointment.
She whispered, “I know you’re upset, but—”
“Yes.” The voice that spoke didn’t sound like it belonged to me, but it couldn’t have come from anyone else.
Her bottom lip trembled. “It’s just . . . you have so much on your plate right now, and your father and I didn’t want you to worry.”
“Oh, my God,” I snapped. “That’s such bullshit.”
She scowled. “Don’t talk to me like that. I’m your mother.”
I snatched up one of the bills before me, tearing open the envelope as I spoke. “Except I’m the only one with any responsibility around here. What are you thinking? You can’t just ignore this and believe it’s going to go away.” Tears of anger burned my eyes, making my vision bleary and the credit card statement I’d opened hard to read.
“We’re not ignoring it, we just need a little more time.”
“Time for what? For Macalister to write me a five-million-dollar check?”
It looked like I’d kicked her in the stomach, but it was hard to feel much sympathy for her right now. My anger burned so hot inside me, it consumed all other emotion. I stared at the charges printed on the paper and my focus zeroed in on the date.
“What the fuck is this?” I jammed the statement at her, my finger on the line pointing it out. “You spent four thousand dollars at Chanel last week?”
A range of emotions played out on her face. Surprise, followed by guilt, and then defensiveness.
“You don’t know what it’s like!” Tears spilled down her face. “It’s so overwhelming. I feel awful all the time, Marist. I’m miserable every second of every day, and I just . . .” She tipped her head back and stared at the ceiling. “I needed some relief, all right? I saw the bag, and I just wanted to be happy for two seconds. I needed an escape. I’m sorry.”
I swung away, unable to look at her, but there was no escape for me. The Etonsons crest was on one of the letters in the pile. It was far too late to apply for a student loan, and who would give me one, anyway? My family was supposed to be American royalty with coffers full of money.
“I’ll take the bag back,” she mumbled.
Like that would solve anything. My mother had lived her whole life as an entitled and privileged woman. Her behavior would never change.
I said nothing to her. I simply stared at my family’s financial ruin and tried not to cry. In five days, I would be armed with Hale resources and this would be a mountain I could climb. My silence drove my mother away, and I was grateful she wasn’t near. I assumed she went to her room to feel sorry for herself some more, rather than do anything about her situation.
I pulled down the ignored bills and notices, flinging them to the floor until they were a puddle of debt at my feet. I dropped down beside it, my back against the lower cabinets, and began to open each one.
Some time later, Emily found me there, neat piles sorted by priority gathered around me. She barely blinked at how I was sitting on the floor of the kitchen or what I was doing. It wasn’t all that surprising. My parents had passed on the avoider gene to her. She’d put the pregnancy test off for weeks so she wouldn’t have to face reality.
As she slid down the cabinets to sit beside me, I sighed. I was still upset with her about what she’d kept from me. She was supposed to be my best friend. Did she feel like she couldn’t trust me? That I’d judge her? It hurt.
But this wasn’t the time to talk through our issues. Couldn’t she see that? I was frayed and raw, and there were
bigger things to worry about than my feelings.
“You’ve been avoiding me for weeks,” she said. “And I’ve been avoiding this too, but we have to talk.”
“I know, but not now, Em.” I scanned the papers surrounding us. “Just let me get through this weekend, and then everything’s going to get better.”
“No, it isn’t. I shouldn’t have let this go on as long as it has. I should have told you weeks ago.” She grabbed my arm to let me know she was serious. My breath cut off as her expression turned to desperation. “You can’t marry Royce.”
My pulse slowed to a crawl. Hyperawareness tingled across my skin, warning me something big was coming. Oh, God. Was this where she told me she was secretly in love with him?
My voice wavered. “Why’s that?”
“Because for him to join the board?” Her hand squeezed so hard it was uncomfortable. “He has to fuck you in front of them.”
Chapter Thirteen
Incredulous laughter welled up and erupted from my throat. Emily’s joke was so ridiculous it wasn’t even that funny, but I needed the stress relief, and it felt good to let it out.
My sister didn’t laugh with me. Her eyes were full of fear, and—damn—she was really selling the joke.
“Stop it,” I said. “Where’d you even come up with that?”
“Marist, I’m serious.” She frowned, trying to assemble convincing words. “I thought it was like an urban legend too when I heard it. You know people talk all sorts of shit about the Hales. But this? It’s true.”
“Okay.” I patronized her with a look. “Sure.”
Yet an unwelcomed sensation folded my stomach in two. It whispered to listen to my sister.
“My friend Jenny,” she said, “used to babysit for the Scoffields. She said one night when they’d come home after a party, Mrs. Scoffield was shitfaced and started screaming at her husband about how she let him fuck her while they all watched.”
I pressed my lips together. “She could have been talking about anything.”
Money made people crazy. It lowered inhibitions and sent them on power trips. Everyone knew there was a seedy underside to Cape Hill. Plenty of the higher-ups had been caught in compromising positions. Everything from underage drinking and affairs, to drugs and prostitutes.