by Nikki Sloane
Her smile was full of relief. “Good, thank God. I’m happy for you both.” Her gaze left mine and drifted to her other daughter. “It makes things . . . easier.”
“It does,” I said.
My marriage would bring enormous privilege to my family, but she’d never know that falling in love with Royce or becoming a Hale had been anything but easy.
It wasn’t long after that when Emily jolted in her bed and new concern streaked across her face. “I think my water just broke.”
Everyone was up out of their chairs. She wasn’t due for another three weeks.
It had been chilly in the hospital room like they always were, and so after Emily had changed into a gown and gotten into bed, the nurse had put a heavy blanket over her. Now, my sister cast it off and peered down at the soaked bed.
Crimson stained the sheets and blotted her legs. She was sitting in a puddle of blood, making my mother scream and dash toward Emily’s bedside. I reached behind me, trying to find the chair I’d been sitting in, but the horrifying feeling was overwhelming.
I couldn’t stand the sight of blood.
It made my limbs go weak. My stomach flipped, over and over in a dizzying sensation, speeding up until everything abruptly went black.
Emily nearly died.
The doctor didn’t say it in those specific words, but his grave tone and somber expression as he delivered the post-op summary did. When he used phrases like detached placenta and extreme hemorrhaging, I focused more on the way he was saying it than what he was saying, because I worried I’d pass out again. There’d been so much blood, I didn’t know how she or her daughter had survived.
I wasn’t a religious person, but after I’d come to and Emily had been taken away for an emergency C-section, I prayed. I’d held on to my mother with one hand and an ice pack to my side with the other, begging for my sister and Baby to be okay.
When I’d fainted, I’d collided with the chair, catching it right in my ribs, and it ached with each deep breath I took. Nothing was broken, thankfully. Just an ugly red line that would likely turn blue-purple tomorrow. I was upset with myself. When I’d passed out, it caused even more chaos in the room and unnecessary stress for my mother.
But we Northcott women made it through.
And now my mother was a grandmother. Selene Marist Northcott was seven pounds, one ounce, with a full head of brown hair . . . and perfectly healthy. Once Emily had been moved to her suite, we spent hours fawning over the newest member of the Northcott family. We’d called my dad at the office and told him she was going in for a C-section, and by the time he’d rushed over, Selene had been born. The doctors had moved fast.
It was late when the nurse came by to take Selene to the nursery so my sister could get some much-needed rest. She hadn’t been able to hold her baby much, and I knew that was hard for her.
“Em,” I said, my voice filled with awe, “you made another person, and she’s so amazing.”
My sister was exhausted, but a smile lit up her face. “I do good work.”
I laughed, and it felt so good after the day we’d had. “You do.”
Our parents weren’t here—my dad had taken my mother down to get some dinner, and it was nice being just the two of us. I tried to savor it. It’d likely be one of the last quiet times between us for a while.
But I didn’t get to enjoy it. There was a knock on the door at the front of the suite, and Emily and I exchanged a look. I got up, walked through the small sitting area, and opened the door, only for my jaw to hit the ground.
“Who is it?” she asked.
“It’s Brandon,” Dr. Galliat answered back.
He stood in the hallway, wearing an expression of hesitation and carrying a large bouquet of flowers in a vase. I narrowed my gaze at him. I’d had him as a professor my sophomore year for Intro to Psychology, and he hadn’t changed much since. He was still young and handsome, probably with the same dimples when he smiled that made all the girls take a second glance.
“Marist,” he said, recognizing me. “Can I see her?”
“I don’t know.” I asked it louder, so she’d hear. “Can he see you, or do you want me to tell him to come back another time?”
Emily didn’t get a chance to answer. Dr. Galliat’s expression shifted to panic and went over my shoulder to the woman in the bed who’d just given birth to his daughter—the one he’d wanted nothing to do with.
“Please.” He was desperate. “Emily, please. I left her, okay? Can we just—?”
“Fine,” she said.
As soon as I was out of his way, he strode toward her bed, dumping off the flowers on a side table. “How are you?”
She ignored his question and surveyed him from top to bottom. Maybe she checked to see if he was still wearing his wedding ring, but he wasn’t. Like me, her eyes were also narrowed. “What are you doing here?”
“Your mother called me.” A strange look filled his face. Guilt? Embarrassment? He closed his eyes and ran his finger over an eyebrow. “She was upset and had some choice words for me.”
The corner of my mouth wanted to tug up into a smile at the idea of my mother going all tiger mom on him. If she blamed Dr. Galliat for nearly killing my sister, I understood. I felt that way a little too.
He sighed. “You don’t owe me anything after the way I treated you, but, Emily, I made a mistake. I was scared, but I’m not anymore.”
My sister had such a big heart, I could already see his words thawing the ice he’d put around it. It wasn’t my business, but I couldn’t help myself. My tone was pure condescension. “Good for you.”
He wasn’t fazed, and his focus remained locked on my sister. “I’m sure you’re tired and you’ve been through hell, so I’ll get right to the point. I want a second chance. Maybe you can grant that to me, and maybe you can’t, but at least let me be a part of our daughter’s life.”
She pressed her lips together, but her chin began to quiver, and tears flooded her eyes. “I’m not going to keep her from you, but I don’t know about anything else right now.”
It wasn’t a solid ‘no,’ and Dr. Galliat seemed to take it as a win. He let out a breath like some of the tension in his chest had eased. “You didn’t answer me before. Are you okay?”
She lifted a shoulder in a shrug, but then winced when her body reminded her not to move. “I’m tired and—”
There was no knock on the door, because he’d unfortunately been in this hospital’s suites before and understood how they afforded privacy. Royce came in, the tail of his tie hanging out of the pocket of his long overcoat, and an even bigger bouquet than the one Dr. Galliat had shown up with. My fiancé scanned the room, found me, and flashed a smile before moving deeper into the suite and depositing the flowers beside the other arrangement.
“Congratulations,” he said to my sister. “Your mom pointed her out to me in the nursery. She’s as beautiful as her mother.”
Dr. Galliat’s shoulders lifted and his chest broadened. It was a territorial posture, and he gazed at the younger man like he was a threat.
“Thank you,” Emily said. She turned her gaze up to her former—and I suspected soon to be current—lover. “Brandon. This is my sister’s fiancé, Royce.”
Dr. Galliat went rigid, and his voice was strained. “Royce Hale?”
“That’s right. You are?”
Emily wasn’t sure what label to use but decided to go with the truth. “This is Selene’s father, Dr. Brandon Galliat.”
Something flickered in Royce, like the name was familiar, but he couldn’t place it. He held out his hand for a handshake. “Nice to meet you.”
Dr. Galliat stared at the offered hand like it might bite him, and the mood in the room quickly became awkward when he didn’t move. But finally, he broke and accepted a quick shake.
“Congrats,” Royce said.
Dr. Galliat’s eyes widened. “For what?”
Royce’s head ticked to
the side. “Your daughter?”
“Right. Thanks.” He turned to Emily. “I should go and let you get some sleep.”
She blinked, stunned. He’d just gotten here, dropped a bombshell, and now he was leaving? “Oh. Okay.”
He was already moving toward the door. “I’ll text you tomorrow and see how you’re both doing, if that’s all right.”
“Sure,” she said, sounding anything but.
“Okay, good.” He paused at the doorway as if there was something else he wanted to say, but he didn’t. He went out the door without another word. Like he couldn’t get out of this room fast enough.
“That was weird,” I said.
Royce looked indifferent. “Sometimes it happens.”
“What happens?”
“The Hale name makes people uncomfortable.” He stared at me with his enigmatic eyes. “You’ll get used to it.”
Would I? I doubted it.
ELEVEN
After the holidays were over, I’d hoped things would settle down, but they only grew more frantic. I entered my final semester of college with a plate full of wedding planning. Even with a team of event coordinators to handle things, there were still obligations I had to fulfill personally.
Like my bridal shower.
Since my sister had a newborn and was still recovering, another bridesmaid stepped in to help—Sophia Alby. Paired with Alice as a host, my two frenemies threw a lavish luncheon, complete with a fairytale theme and specially commissioned Swarovski crystal figurines as party favors. They were a glittering version of Cinderella’s pumpkin carriage, and I wanted to laugh at Alice’s shade.
She wasn’t wrong. I was the poor girl, playing dress up and pretending to be someone else while I fell in love with the prince. But her plan to get under my skin backfired. The figurine said more about her than it did me. It was a paperweight in the digital world—its only use was for the background of Instagram pictures.
The weekend after my twenty-second birthday, Royce attempted to take me to the British Virgin Islands, only to discover when we arrived at the airport the jet was already gone. An emergency with the German branch had called Macalister away with just enough time to change the jet’s flight plan, but apparently not enough to let us know about it.
It was Friday evening, which made it impossible to arrange anything spur of the moment, and with such a short trip anyway, we were forced to scrap our plans. Frustration rolled off Royce in thick waves.
“It’s okay.” I curled my hand around his arm and snuggled closer as we stood in the frosty airplane hangar. “I just want to be alone with you. I don’t care where.”
The irritation raging in his expression faded. “I know. Me too. But, fuck, Marist. I was promised you were going to wear a bikini.”
I snorted. “I can still put it on. You just have to let me wear socks too, though, because your dad keeps the house freezing.” My voice trailed off at the end. Why the fuck had I said that? With the mention of Macalister, Royce stiffened. I had to try again. “There’s always our honeymoon.”
He’d booked the yacht for the French Riviera like we’d talked about, and we’d leave for Nice the day after our wedding in June.
At least, if there wasn’t an emergency for Macalister that required our yacht.
In March, HBHC presented its offer to Ascension with a ‘bear hug’ letter. It was called a bear hug because it was an overly warm and generous offer to the target company’s shareholders. Ascension had been trading at forty-two dollars. HBHC’s tender offer was fifty a share. The market went nuts. I could feel the frenzied air sweeping in from New York all the way up in Boston.
Everyone was abuzz with the announcement that Hale Banking and Holding was plotting a takeover. Wall Street sharks smelled blood in the water. Royce and I were up late the night the news broke, and we watched the scrolling banner on CNBC in bed together, our breath tight.
Maybe he already felt he’d passed the threshold, but for me, this was the moment where there was no turning back. The offer was out, done, and it was Ascension’s move now. They could counter the proposal, or fight, or reject it, but each path had its own pitfalls. If they turned it down, they risked being sued by their shareholders.
And I was currently in bed with one of them. I didn’t know how much stock, specifically, he owned, but if the company accepted HBHC’s offer, he stood to make a fortune larger than most third-world economies.
Some of my classmates were talking about the offer the next morning, but to each other and not me. Since becoming Royce’s fiancée, I suffered from a different type of ostracism. The other students in my Financial Crises class viewed me as one of the gods from Mount Olympus, and as mere mortals, believed they were forbidden to speak to me.
It was lonely, but familiar.
I stared blankly at the table at the front of the classroom, waiting for the lecture to begin. Where was the professor?
As if on cue, she breezed in, moved the strap from her bag over her head, and dropped it on the podium. “Sorry. This is last minute, so please bear with me.” She took out her phone and tapped the screen. “We have a guest professor for today. Hold on while I pull up his bio.”
She didn’t give a name as she began reading, but it only took a few details before my stomach dropped. Harvard MBA. CEO of one of the biggest banks in the world. Enjoys chess in his spare time.
My professor’s smile was wide. “We all know the impact of the subprime financial crisis of 2008, but this is a rare opportunity to get an inside look at how one bank found themselves in jeopardy and then responded. Let’s give a big welcome to Macalister Hale.” She gestured to the open doorway. “Mr. Hale?”
There were audible gasps when he strode into the room, looking powerful in his black suit and red tie. Some of the women clapped. Others were too busy gazing at him as if Gordon Gekko had magically come to life and decided the first thing he’d do was give a lecture at a women’s college in Boston.
He’d just announced to the world he wanted Ascension. What was he doing here?
His surveyed the room critically as he moved to the podium at the center and noted the bag on it with a look of disdain.
“Oh,” the professor said with a too-bright, enamored smile. “That’s mine.”
She grabbed it by the strap and in her flustered state immediately dropped it, sending makeup and car keys scattering loudly across the hard floor. He didn’t help her as she apologized and scooped the items up. He simply stared at her, and I could hear the thought running through his mind. Be gone with you.
When she finally stepped to the side and took her seat, he placed his hands on the podium and lifted his steely-eyed gaze to meet mine.
I’d barely seen him in the last few months, and when I had, all I could ever see was his face the moment he’d reached his orgasm. How his mouth had parted to drag in breath and how his eyes had gone hazy, but he didn’t dare drop his focus from me.
The air in the classroom went thin, but Macalister and I were the only ones who seemed to be having difficulty breathing. He held my gaze for a lifetime and a single beat, and then his focus shifted away to the class in general.
“Thank you.” His tone was cold and professional. “I’m happy to speak with you all this afternoon, and hope you find what I have to say informative.”
For the next forty-five minutes, he recanted the tale of how he, as a newly-minted CEO in 2007, had struggled to lead the bank through the darkness of the housing bubble burst and come out the other side of the Great Recession with his family’s company still intact.
Once I divorced my mind from the man I knew personally, I was able to absorb his lecture from a business standpoint. He talked about his successes and was somewhat forthcoming about his failures too. But there was a glimpse of the real Macalister near the end. Defensiveness crept over him when he brought up the Troubled Asset Relief Program money HBHC had accepted to bail them out and was quick to remind us that over
five hundred banks in America had needed taxpayer dollars to keep from collapsing.
He took a few questions at the end, but they were softball ones. Unsophisticated questions meant to flatter, but he saw through the bullshit and was irritated.
I raised my hand, and when he nodded, “Do you think the bailout created a moral hazard for big banks?”
“I can’t answer for every bank,” he said, “but I believe the answer is no. There are protections in place like Dodd-Frank—”
“But you created the problem with your greed, were deemed too big to fail, and then given billions of dollars to get out of it. Without having to suffer the consequences, was there a lesson learned?”
If a pin had dropped in the room, everyone would have heard it, except perhaps him. His anger moved almost as slowly as a glacier as it rose up over his face, but I could see in his eyes it burned hotter than the sun. It was so rare he lost control.
“First of all,” his speech was crisp and deadly, “I have been credited with a great many things, but personally causing the subprime mortgage crisis is a new one. Second, there were consequences—some of which my bank is still grappling with.” The walls in the classroom closed in so it was just the two of us. Macalister speaking only to me in his sharp tone. “And third, I don’t use the term ‘too big to fail,’ because failure isn’t a word I allow in my vocabulary, Marist.”
He’d scolded me like a child in front of the whole room, and I wanted to melt under the table and disappear. As he said his goodbye, I sensed the rest of the class wanted that as well. I’d meant to embarrass him, but I’d done it to myself instead.
I stayed up later than Royce did on the weeknights. I was a night-owl, and my earliest class wasn’t until nine thirty, and there were some mornings where he’d gone into the office and was seated at his desk before I’d even gotten out of bed.
He told me to enjoy it while I could. After graduation and the wedding, Macalister had informed me I’d start as a credit analyst at HBHC and work on my master’s in my spare time. It was an entry-level position, and I could probably land a better one on my own somewhere else, but he’d never allow a Hale to work outside the company. If I put in my dues and proved qualified, there would be fewer cries of nepotism when I moved into higher positions.