by Nikki Sloane
“Ms. Northcott?”
The warm, male voice caused me to turn in my seat. “Yes. Sorry, I’m early.”
“No, you’re fine.”
The owner was in his fifties with thinning hair on top, but I liked how he’d buzzed it close rather than grow it long and comb it over. He wore wire-rimmed glasses and a jet-black suit that fit him perfectly.
“I’m Richard Costolli. It’s so nice to meet you.” When I pushed to my feet, he smiled. “Please, keep your seat. I was honored when your mother called.”
“She planned to come, but something came up,” I lied. “It’s just me. I hope that’s okay.”
The truth was my mother found this too difficult. It made our dire situation “too real.” My blood had run hot through my veins. I was doing everything in my power to bail them out, and I was pissed that still, I was the only responsible one.
“Of course. I hope everything is all right.” Mr. Costolli took the empty chair beside me, put one elbow on the glass case, and leaned forward. His expression was full of anticipation.
“Oh,” I said, glancing around. “Do I . . .”
“Right here will be fine.” His eyes gleamed just as much as the jewelry we were surrounded by. “I’m dying to see it.”
I bent down and pulled the blue, leather-bound case from my purse and set it on the glass counter. He ran a hand reverently over the top of the lid, trailing appreciative fingers over the embossed silver logo.
My mother had done the same this morning before handing the box to me, only her fingers had been forlorn, and her eyes filled with unshed tears.
“May I?” he asked, motioning to open it.
I nodded.
There was a sharp intake of breath as he lifted the hinged lid and gazed at the necklace seated on velvet. His voice dropped to a hush. “It’s stunning.”
“Thank you,” I said, my throat tight.
He was absolutely right. The diamond wreath necklace resting below the Harry Winston logo was the most beautiful piece of jewelry I’d ever seen. I’d never worn it, other than the few times growing up when my mother let me try it on.
The diamonds were set so they looked like vines covered in exquisite, faceted ice.
I didn’t know why I felt compelled to tell him, but the words tumbled from my mouth. “My great-grandfather surprised my great-grandmother with it to celebrate their twentieth anniversary. She nearly had a heart attack because I’m told he was . . .” I lowered my voice, “well, a cheap bastard.”
Mr. Costolli laughed, and I gave a forced smile, not wanting him to see how hard this was.
It must not have worked because he turned serious. His solemn expression said he understood whatever figure the necklace appraised for, its sentimental value to my family would far exceed that.
“My mother only wore it once, on the day she married my father,” I added.
Emily and I had both hoped to wear it on our wedding day. I didn’t want to sell it, but we were strapped for money, and insuring a necklace that appraised in the six figures was one of the many expenses we had to cut. I needed to soften the fall for my family if I failed to hold up my end of Macalister’s insane deal.
“This is a very special piece,” Mr. Costolli said quietly. He pulled out a jeweler’s loupe and examined the stones while I retrieved the envelope from my purse that contained all the paperwork he’d need to hold the necklace while it was prepared for auction.
When it was done, I took a final look at the necklace. I tried to ignore the pang of sadness lining my heart as I climbed to my feet. I said my goodbyes to Mr. Costolli, shouldered my purse, and headed for the entrance.
A whisper of something caught my attention. I turned and glanced at the case closest to the door. The rows of engagement rings glinted back, mocking me. I paused then changed course and went to the case.
The settings ran the gamut. Some were simple and understated, and some had no center stone set in them yet. Others were enormous or encrusted with jewels in elaborate designs.
Ever the salesman, Mr. Costolli’s tone was light, but hopeful. “See anything you like?”
“Just looking.” I gave a vague smile.
I wasn’t about to tell him the display filled me with dread. Besides, what I liked was irrelevant. I had no doubt Macalister would have a say in the ring I’d be forced to wear.
After rinsing the dye from my hair, the stylist sat me in his chair and swiveled it away from the mirror, wanting to give me the “grand reveal” when he was done. He’d been blowing out my hair for at least thirty minutes, and every now and again I’d get a flash of a newly-dark lock before it was brushed out of my line of sight.
“I’m sorry, Marist, but this is a mess.” Alice Hale stood across from me, clutched my phone in her hand, and used a manicured finger to scroll through my Instagram profile. Each swipe she made only deepened the crease in her forehead. “It’s all mythology stuff and random pictures of food. This tells me nothing about you. What’s your color story?”
“Color story?” I repeated over the incessant hairdryer.
Alice was classically beautiful. Her look was timeless, with her long blonde hair, big doe eyes, and skin that glowed. I’d swear she had a filter, like I was constantly viewing her through an old timey camera lens. She was luminescent.
Macalister’s second wife was ten years younger than he was, barely in her forties, and although she looked like a trophy wife, Alice was anything but. She was the vice president of marketing at HBHC, a creative genius, and one of the few people at the company who didn’t cower in fear of the boss. It helped she was sleeping with him.
But being married to Macalister came at a price, and she often searched for it at the bottom of a bottle of vodka. Her last stint at rehab seemed to take, though. She’d been ‘on’ and focused the whole time we’d been at the salon, and it had taken a while to cut and color my hair.
“Are you ready?” the stylist asked, but I wasn’t sure if he was talking to me or to Alice. In any case, he didn’t wait for an answer. The chair spun and, as I found my own gaze in the mirror, my lips parted on a deep breath.
“Well?” his voice teemed with pride. “What do you think?”
Alice glanced at my reflection, scrutinized his work, and nodded her approval. “So. Much. Better. Thank you, Sebastian.” She leaned over my shoulder, bringing her face beside mine in the mirror. “Now you look like—”
“My sister,” I interrupted.
“What?” Alice turned and peered at me with new eyes, considering my statement, but shrugged it off. “No. You look better than her.”
I had no idea how to feel about that.
Now that my hair was done, the makeup artist on standby stepped in like a surgeon waiting for the patient to be transferred to their care. She discussed palettes with Alice, and the women found the perfect day-to-evening look for me, all without having to address me directly. My input was not needed.
I wasn’t a tomboy. I liked dresses, and makeup, and feeling feminine, but there was no joy in this unwanted makeover. It wasn’t just my appearance, it was my whole persona they were determined to manipulate. To manufacture. I’d had to give her access to all my social media accounts so she could rebrand them.
It left me powerless as she stripped away one thing after another that made me unique. That made me, me. As Alice’s personal shopper arrived with bags of dresses to try on, each one too sexy, or bold, or edgy . . . anxiety needled up my spine.
If I wasn’t careful, I’d become a Stepford wife. My personality would be hollowed out to make room for their brand, and I’d exist as a shadow of a real woman.
No.
I was determined to play this game until I found a way to beat it.
It wasn’t all that warm outside for late May and there was a breeze, but I was already sweating as I walked up to the restaurant and put a clammy hand on the door handle. The air conditioning slammed into me as I stepped inside and caused a shiver.
Or perhaps
it was the man waiting in the foyer for me.
Royce had his back to the door, but he sensed my arrival. He turned, and his intense gaze swept down over my frame, taking in the new, repackaged me. My hair was now back to my natural shade, the color of dark chocolate, and had been curled into soft waves. My eyebrows had been waxed into perfect arches.
Other parts of my body were still pink and raw from wax as well, but they were hidden beneath my lace skirt.
I couldn’t tell from his expression if he liked my new look, or if his smile was fiction. “You look nice,” he said simply.
“Thank you,” I parroted back. “You too.”
He had on a navy sport coat and a check-patterned shirt over his blue jeans. Business up top and casual below, but at the same time, he looked like he could exist in both worlds without any effort. Maybe Alice had helped him find his day-to-evening look too.
Every pair of eyes in the restaurant was on us as we were led to our table for dinner. Probably not every pair, but God, it felt that way.
“Is it just me,” I asked over the top of my menu, “or is everyone staring at us?”
Royce was indifferent. “They’re staring at you.”
His statement rattled me. “Why?”
“Because you’re here with me.” His gaze never lifted to mine, like he couldn’t be bothered. “Or more likely, because you’re fucking gorgeous. Who knows?”
Breath halted in my lungs. “You can’t just say shit like that.”
The leather-bound menu holder dropped onto the table with a thud, and I was met with the full power of Royce’s irritated stare. “That you’re beautiful? You are. Get over it.”
Dismay twisted my lips into a frown. “Please, don’t. I don’t need bullshit lines from someone like you.”
“It’s not a line, and . . . someone like me?” More annoyance darted through his eyes, but intrigue too. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
How was I going to put it into words? “You’re a ‘haver.’ I mean, you could have any woman in this room if you wanted, and probably some of the guys too. You’re young, hot, and filthy rich.”
His irritation vanished. It was replaced with an arrogant expression that said none of this was news to him. I pushed forward, gathering steam.
“Me?” I said. “I’m a ‘have-not.’ I’m sure you didn’t intend for it to happen, but when you said I was a nobody, you made it true. No one will touch me.”
“I touched you.”
He was immune to my scorching glare. “You wanted to know why I was still a virgin last year. Well, there’s your answer. You’re the reason, Royce. Nobody would be caught dead with me.”
He considered the accusation I’d lobbed at him. “You’re wrong,” he said finally. “I was aware what was going to happen. It’s exactly why I said it.”
My head turned into a void. “What?”
He leaned over the table to ensure he had my full attention. “I saw you at the bar with your sister that night. You were swaying to the music, all happy, and pretty, and it pissed me off. My father had already laid out plans for me. I was supposed to be with Emily, but that wasn’t what I wanted.”
I clenched the menu in my hands. I sensed where he was going, but I couldn’t wrap my head around it. My heart chugged along, thumping loudly in my ears.
“So, yeah. I knew you were behind me when I called you a nobody. I did it on purpose, because I couldn’t stand you with anyone else. I wanted you for myself.”
“Oh, my God.” My body flushed hot, although I didn’t know if it was with anger or excitement, or a deadly combination of the two.
“I’d tell you I’m sorry if that was hard for you, but honestly?” He tossed a hand up. “I’m not. I take my victories where I can get them, and I don’t regret what I had to do to earn it. It’s win-at-all-costs in the Hale family. You’ll learn that soon enough.”
Catching my breath was impossible. “You’re making this up.”
He looked dubious. “Seriously? Why would I? I went out with Emily once. Did she tell you about it?”
“She said,” I swallowed thickly, “you were a jerk.”
“Is that it?”
When I didn’t answer, he sat back in his chair and crossed his arms, looking at me like I’d just proved his point.
“I wasn’t aware that was something you could turn on or off.” My tone was dry. “I thought it was a default setting for you.”
He chuckled. “See? You’re like me. You say what you’re thinking, and no one talks to me like that. It’s one of the reasons I like you. Everyone else has their nose so far up my family’s ass it’s uncomfortable.”
One of the reasons. What were the others? “She also said you had zero chemistry.”
The corner of his mouth quirked. “That should have been a dead giveaway. Because you and me, Marist? There’s no fucking issue of chemistry. I still remember what you taste like.”
Oh, Lord.
I put my hands on the linen tablecloth because the world was spinning too fast and threatened to hurl me off. The naïve part of me wanted to believe everything he’d said, but my brain didn’t trust him. He was a master manipulator.
The waitress appeared. “Have you decided?”
“I’m not hungry.” Because what I was interested in wasn’t on the menu.
Royce gave her a strained smile. “We’ll each have the filet, medium rare, with a Caesar salad.” He snatched up the wine list and pointed to an entry. “And this bottle of wine, please.”
She was gone almost instantly.
“I said I’m not hungry,” I repeated.
“And this is supposed to be a date, not a business meeting, so maybe start acting like it.”
Our evening tonight was to lay the groundwork that Royce and I were a couple, so when our engagement was announced next month it’d be less of a shock. Cape Hill wasn’t large, and news of our evening would spread quickly.
Especially since the girl two tables over from us had snapped a picture. It was probably already up on Instagram.
At least, if it fit in with the girl’s color story.
“It’d be more believable if you didn’t look like you hate my guts,” he added.
“I don’t,” I said and frowned. “Honestly? I have no idea how to feel about you.”
A playful expression crossed his face. “I think you like me. You just don’t want to.”
“God, you’re cocky.”
He grinned widely, and I did my best not to let it get to me. A weaker woman would have swooned at that smile. “It’s not cocky,” he said, “if you can back it up.”
I rolled my eyes. “That’s exactly what a cocky person would say.”
He laughed. It was a pleasant sound. “Can I tell you something?”
“Go for it.”
“You look great,” he said, “but I miss the green hair.”
The momentary lightness in me faded. “Yeah, well, it wasn’t exactly your father’s cup of tea, was it?”
The muscles along his jaw flexed like he was gritting his teeth. “Nothing is. You’ll get used to it after a while.”
Although the way he’d said it made me think otherwise. Like Royce was still struggling not to disappoint his father. I ran my fingers along the edge of my silverware. “You said you were protecting me the other day.”
His expression glazed over. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
I sighed. I was so very tired already, when I knew I still had a long way to go. “Please? Can we be honest with each other and—”
“Everything I have was given to me,” Royce said. “He never stops reminding me and Vance of that. It all came from him, and he can take it away from us at any time.”
His hard, serious expression made my insides cold.
“Which means,” he continued, “everything that’s mine? It’s his, according to him.” His gaze captured mine and refused to let go. “So, if I show an interest in something—let’s say a particular Northcott sister—he
might decide to take her away from me, just because he wants to make sure I remember who’s in charge.”
“Holy shit.” Every muscle in me locked up. I had my doubts about a lot of things he’d said, but this I believed. Royce liked to mess with people, and he’d learned it from his father.
Macalister was Zeus. He fucked with the mortals just for the fun of it.
For sport.
Which meant everything was more dangerous than I realized. If Macalister decided to “take me away” from Royce, that meant the deal would be off and my family would be left with nothing. Anxiety fluttered in my chest. I would have to depend on the man sitting across from me to guide us through the next few weeks.
“We shouldn’t talk about it right now.” Royce’s gaze dropped to the table and focused on something. “He has at least a spy or two here.”
He plucked a non-existent piece of lint from his sleeve and flicked it away. It’d been a normal gesture, but I didn’t miss his meaning. He’d used it to motion toward the couple sitting a few tables away.
One of whom was the girl who’d taken a picture of us. The idea of spies sounded ridiculous, but the Hales had a stupid amount of money, and it made them paranoid.
The wine arrived. I sat awkwardly still as the server poured Royce a sample, and my gaze followed the swirl of the red wine in his glass before it was set against his lips. When his throat bobbed with a swallow, a pulse deep between my legs mirrored it. Was that why he’d made a move on me in the library last year? Had he been sampling me? Making sure he wanted to buy the entire bottle?
He nodded his approval to the waitress and the wine was poured in both our glasses, and he didn’t speak again until she was gone.
“Come home with me tonight.”
I choked on my wine, coughing and sputtering.
“So we can talk about it freely,” he offered over the rim of his glass.
Oh, he was smooth. My body clambered for it, but I shoved the desire down. “Right.” My tone was drier than the wine. “Talk.”
He sounded innocent, but his smile was sinful. “Did you have something else in mind?”
