by Nikki Sloane
My mother’s shoulders sagged, but she nodded and gestured to the dining room, ushering us toward the table our housekeeper Delphine had set with our fine china.
Since my father sat at the head of the table, I ended up across from Royce, and I spent the majority of the meal staring at the gold filigree in my plate, rather than endure his stare that drilled down into me.
The conversation was stilted pleasantries like it always was. Macalister’s only hobby was being an asshole, so it made him difficult to talk to. He’d changed so much over the years. I barely remembered how he used to be, or if he had ever genuinely smiled.
As soon as Delphine cleared the plates from the main course and disappeared through the door to the kitchen, my father’s boss laced his fingers together and set them on the table. The air shifted in the room. It was time to discuss business.
“Royce will be joining the board of directors,” Macalister said.
Holy shit.
He dropped his plain statement on the table, but it fell like an anvil and crushed through the floor, threatening to pull us all down with it. It was no secret my father wanted the coveted seat on the board. Royce was a Hale, so it was natural he’d be offered one eventually but, Jesus, he’d only been working at the company for a year.
And he was twenty-five.
Splotches of red crawled up my father’s neck and peeked out over the starched collar of his dress shirt. No doubt he was thinking how he’d been working for Hale Banking and Holding from before Royce was born. Charles Northcott was supposed to be next in line.
My gaze snapped to Royce, but he simply stared back, devoid of any emotion. He’d become a statue once again.
“How wonderful,” my mother choked out.
“Yes,” my father lied.
Macalister gave a subtle nod. “As you know, this is a huge honor.” His tone was cursory. “We have a tradition that goes along with it.”
A thousand tiny spiders crawled along my back.
The last time someone had joined the board, I’d been eight. No one explained to me what the process was, and not that anyone could. The tradition went back several generations in the company, and only the board members were privy to it. There was an initiation, or a ceremony, or some weird rite of passage, and then an enormous party afterward to celebrate. Like the private and elusive societies at an Ivy League school, I found the whole secret thing pretentious. Men making a big deal and pretending to be more important than they were.
“Now that Emily has finished school,” Macalister continued, “it makes sense that she joins Royce. Once he takes his seat, we will announce their engagement at the celebration afterward.”
It was surprising when my jaw fell open, it didn’t thump audibly onto the table.
In the past year, Emily and Royce had been on exactly one date, and she’d said it had been horrible. They had little in common and zero chemistry, according to her. I’d found that a little surprising. He was an asshole for sure . . . but no chemistry? I certainly hadn’t experienced that issue with him.
His kiss had burned for weeks after.
A part of me was secretly thrilled it hadn’t worked out between them.
Wait for me, his voice echoed through my mind.
Beneath the table, I pinched my knees together. It was hard to handle the memory while he was seated right in front of me.
But he didn’t protest the suggestion of marrying my sister. He didn’t say a goddamn thing about what his father had just announced, and irrational jealousy knifed through me. And even if you put the lack of chemistry thing to the side, Emily wasn’t even in the fucking room.
It shouldn’t have been so shocking. This marriage proposal wasn’t about love, it was a business merger. Macalister didn’t think my sister needed to be included in the negotiations of it, apparently.
My family’s confusion came out in a single word from my mother. “What?”
He looked irritated he had to spell it out. “Royce would like to ask for Emily’s hand in marriage.”
An incredulous laugh burst from my mouth. Was he seriously letting his daddy do this? “Maybe we should get Emily in here,” I said, my tone sarcastic. “She might have some thoughts about it.”
When Macalister’s icy gaze turned on me, I shivered. I wanted to fold up inside myself until there was nothing left.
“Then perhaps you should go and fetch her,” he decreed.
I stole away from the table, happy to be gone. I stepped out of my heels, depositing them at the base of the steps, and raced up the front staircase, my dress swishing as I went. I burst breathlessly into Emily’s room without knocking and discovered her sitting on the side of her unmade bed, her arms folded across her stomach. She looked like she was holding herself together.
“Em,” I said. “You need to get downstairs now.”
I darted into her walk-in closet and rifled through the dresses hanging there. There was a peach floral dress that was a bit too summery, but it would do. I snatched it off the hanger and stormed back into her room, holding it out urgently.
“Macalister just asked if Royce could have your hand in marriage.”
I’d expected laughter. Disbelief. Shock.
Instead, she cast her glassy, red-rimmed eyes down at her damask bedspread. Somehow, she knew this was coming.
A void opened in my chest. My sister was my best friend, and we told each other everything.
No, you don’t.
I hadn’t told her about my night in the library with Royce. I’d had a good reason not to before they attempted a relationship, and after it was clear nothing was going to happen, it seemed pointless to tell her.
I pushed my questions and sting of betrayal to the side. We’d deal with it later. Right now, we needed to handle the situation. I loved my father with all my heart, but he wasn’t as strong as he needed to be. He was susceptible. He folded and gave in too quickly, especially when it was something he wanted, like another cigar or glass of whiskey.
What if Macalister offered a seat on the board in exchange for Emily? It was absolutely something the shrewd businessman would do, and it was possible our father would be foolish enough to accept. Not that my sister would ever go along with it, but just the insane negotiation could be disastrous.
“Get dressed,” I ordered.
She did as I told her, moving like she was trying to delay the hangman’s noose.
Her hair was washed, but not styled, and there wasn’t a speck of makeup on her face when I led her downstairs, but it was better than her not being there at all. When we appeared, Macalister rose from his seat. Was this courtesy, or a power move? Royce stood as well, but his hesitation made it feel like an afterthought.
Her voice was as fragile as she looked. “Mr. Hale.” Her gaze rolled over to his son. “Royce.”
Macalister rounded the end of the table and strode toward her, his hand outstretched for a greeting. Earlier, he’d forgone a handshake when meeting a nobody like me, making it clear how much he preferred my sister.
“It’s nice to see you again, Emily.” There was no warmth in his tone, but I didn’t think he was capable.
She opened her mouth to say something, but words did not come out. Instead, she heaved the contents of her stomach all over his offered hand.
FIVE
MY MOTHER SCREAMED. It was an awful sound, far worse than the groan from Emily as she tried unsuccessfully to cover her mouth and stop the catastrophe. The red dye from the sports drink she’d consumed was a sickly color when it came back up, like fake, garish blood running through her fingers.
The legs of my father’s chair screeched across the hardwood as he leapt to his feet, yanked a cloth napkin off the table, and scurried to help his boss.
Macalister reared back. Red bile dripped from his hand, and he held it far away from his body. If he could have severed it clean off at that moment, he might have. Royce and I stood in stunned silence while everyone else buzzed around in a flurry of activity.
It left me alone with Royce, staring at each other from across the expansive table my family hardly ever used.
“Hello, Marist. Or is it Medusa now?” His lips held the faintest of smiles. “Did you do what I asked?”
Air halted painfully in my body as everything constricted. I couldn’t believe he had the balls to ask me that after what had just happened, after all this time, and to be so casual about it. Flames bloomed in my chest. “It’s Medusa.”
“Liar.” He smiled so victoriously, I almost didn’t catch the relief he was trying to hide beneath it. His gaze drifted from me to the door our fathers had disappeared through. “Is she pregnant?”
So much had happened in the last few seconds, I couldn’t process. “What?”
He didn’t repeat it, instead he let the question soak in silence.
Emily couldn’t be pregnant. “She’s not even dating anyone.”
He arched an eyebrow. “Last time I checked, that’s not a requirement for getting knocked up.”
I couldn’t manage my emotions. “She’s not.”
As soon as the statement was out, I began to question it. Whatever was going on with this insane wedding proposal, she hadn’t confided any of it in me. My mouth went dry. She hadn’t had anything to drink last night either. One of her friends had ordered celebratory tequila shots, but Emily turned hers down. She’d said she’d gotten sick off of Patron after finals week, and the smell made her nauseated.
Whatever expression I was making must have given away my thoughts because he looked smug.
“Fuck off, Royce,” I snarled. “If she was pregnant, she’d tell me.”
The door to the kitchen swung closed, announcing we were no longer alone. The cold draft of Macalister Hale was back, making the temperature in the room plummet until it was arctic.
“She’s pregnant?” He appeared just as horrified as when my sister had thrown up on him.
“No, she’s not,” I answered quickly.
Royce shoved his hands in his pants pockets and rocked back on his heels like he found the whole thing amusing. “Go ask her. One hundred bucks says she is.”
I didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of running away, but his father had a way of making his desires known without saying a word. The set of his shoulders and the way he angled them toward me expectantly left me with no choice. I trudged back up the stairs with my hands balled into fists. I wished I could have reveled in the moment when someone threw up on Macalister, and if it had been anyone else not in my family, I would have.
She wasn’t sitting on the bed this time, and I could hear her soft crying coming from the bathroom. She was bent over the sink, splashing water on her heated face. As soon as she saw me over her shoulder in the mirror, she straightened.
“Is it possible to die of shame?” She stared up at the ceiling, trying hopelessly to blink back her tears. “I want to. I’m so fucking embarrassed and miserable.”
I had no idea what to say. I wasn’t good at sugarcoating things, and my sister wasn’t an idiot. She knew this wasn’t something Macalister would quickly forgive or forget.
When I lingered awkwardly in the doorway, her expression changed to one filled with worry. “What now?”
“Are you pregnant?”
I’d whispered it, but her reaction was as if I’d screamed it at her. My sister’s eyes expanded with shock, and then guilt spread through them like red wine spilled on a white tablecloth. Her gaze fell to her feet. “I’m . . . three weeks late.”
“Three?” I had a million questions, but the practical one came out first and in a rush. “Shit, why haven’t you taken a test?”
She shoved away from the sink and pressed the back of her hand to her lips. “Because,” she said in a hush, “I know what it’s going to say, and I don’t want it to, okay?” Tears ran down her cheeks and dripped onto the travertine tile.
My heart broke a little. Not just for her, but selfishly for myself. She’d suspected for weeks and not confided in me. How many secrets was she keeping? “Whose is it?”
“I haven’t told him yet.”
“Em.”
“He’s married. Oh, God, I’m a terrible person.” She shut her eyes, squeezing out a fresh batch of tears. “It’s . . . Dr. Galliat.”
“Your psychology professor?”
She nodded. “What the hell am I going to do?”
“Well, you’re not marrying Royce Hale, for starters.” I put my hand on her shoulder and pulled her close, crushing her into a hug. “It’s all right,” I murmured. “Everything’s going to be okay.”
I held her reassuringly while the sobs wracked her body, not caring if her tears were staining my dress. I wondered if this baby could be a blessing in disguise. I certainly couldn’t imagine Macalister as a father-in-law and didn’t want us involved with the Hale family any more than we already were. It already felt like too much.
By the time I returned to the dining room, everything was back the way it had been at the start of lunch—except for the faint, lingering smell of disinfectant. Everyone was seated and appeared calm, but the tension was so strong, it invaded my senses like a thick paste.
“How is she?” my mother asked.
Royce took one look at me and smirked. “Pregnant. You owe me a hundred dollars.”
Macalister didn’t react with his face. He was perfectly composed even as he slammed a fist on the table so hard it created an enormous boom and made the silverware dance on the plates. Royce sobered, and for the first time I could remember, he looked nervous.
“That is unacceptable.” Macalister’s eyes were an intense Nor’easter, and I locked my knees before the hurricane-force winds knocked me down.
My parents were stunned, but the blow to the table seemed to knock my mother back to life. She pushed back her chair. “Please excuse me.”
“Sit down.”
At Macalister’s snarl, she froze halfway out of her seat but then straightened until she stood tall, her backbone hardening. “No. I need to speak with my daughter.”
“In a minute,” he ordered. “You’ll hear what I have to say first.” His attention slithered my direction. “Take your seat. This involves you now, Marist.”
He hardly ever said my name, and for that, I was grateful, because I always shuddered when he did. My feet moved independent of my mind to follow his order and bring me to my chair, and I fell into it while my heart rose into my throat.
“I’m not sure if you’re aware,” he adjusted the sleeves of his dress shirt beneath his suitcoat, “that the Northcott family has accrued so much debt, it’s likely you’ll declare bankruptcy by the end of the summer.”
I let out a short laugh.
What the hell was he talking about? I glanced around our dining room. The ornate, hand-carved table had enough seating for sixteen, and the curtains were Dupioni silk. We’d just had a meal cooked by our private chef and served by our live-in staff.
We had money in spades.
Yet . . .
When I glanced at my parents, they both looked like they’d swallowed the canary, and choked half to death on it.
“I don’t understand,” I said.
My grandparents, the ones I’d been named after, had left their enormous wealth to my mother. Besides that, my father’s annual salary was six figures. We had money in multiple markets. Property. Assets. There was no way bankruptcy was lurking around the corner. It just wasn’t fucking possible.
“A decade ago,” Macalister announced, “your father made a series of terrible investments. He chased the market for a while and dug a deeper hole. To stay afloat, they began draining their savings. You’re a student of economics at Etonsons, correct?”
Hyperawareness inched over my skin, coupled with a terrible feeling of dread. “Yes, sir.”
“Then I don’t need to tell you how your tuition, plus your sister’s, is more than Charles makes in a year. To keep you enrolled, he sold off his stock options.”
My heart raced as the financial walls began to close in, making me swallow thickly. “But the house—”
“Was mortgaged three years ago and is now in default. I’m sure you know which bank holds the lien.” He looked sickeningly pleased to tell me all this. “The fact is Charles and Delancey have been living well beyond their means for years. But that ends today.”
I expected my parents to say something, to either defend themselves or say it wasn’t true. But they were utterly silent, and the quiet grew more crippling with each breath I pulled in. All of our money was . . . gone?
Macalister spread his hands and placed his fingertips on the tabletop. “The only thing you currently own worth any value is your name and reputation.” His statement was laced with a threat. We were all acutely aware he could take those just as easily as he could take the house. A single word from him and we’d be shunned.
“I’m going to make an offer,” he said. “Only a fool wouldn’t accept it.”
I dragged my gaze from Macalister, unable to look at him. I didn’t want him to see the panic swamping in my eyes. Instead, I turned my attention to his son.
Royce sat perfectly still, one hand on the table, his fingertips resting against the edge of his folded napkin. The way he was unnaturally frozen in this casual position made me think it was for show. That inside he was tense and uncomfortable, and worried if he moved, he might give that away.
Macalister straightened in his chair, drawing my attention back to him. “When a new member is welcomed to the board, a woman plays an important role in the tradition.”
My parents’ shame had left them unable to speak, so I had to. “What kind of role?”
“She becomes his wife.”
Oh, my God. The Hales had always been old-fashioned, but this was . . . archaic.
“Marriage is an important partnership,” he continued. “And it’s one the board needs to approve.” He didn’t notice the shock rippling through me. “Your parents were terrible with their finances, but they did a sufficient job raising their daughters. Obviously, Royce isn’t going to marry Emily now, but your family name has enough status that, even though you’re young, this pairing makes sense. And a Hale marrying a Northcott is what Royce’s mother always wanted.”