The Obsession (Filthy Rich Americans Book 2)

by Nikki Sloane

  I swallowed a deep breath, forcing confidence into my body. “I’m fine. I can do this.”

  I said it more for me than for him, but Royce nodded. “Yes. If anyone can, it’s you.”

  He pushed the door open, and my lungs squeezed painfully tight.

  The room looked so different than it had during the initiation. The curtains were open, and bright sunlight poured in from the oversized windows, chasing away shadows. The candelabras had been shelved on a side table. Even the impressive crystal chandelier overhead seemed transformed. It was elegant and regal, sparkling proudly rather than glinting sinisterly in the darkness.

  The table had been set at the end closest to the door, opposite the side where I’d lain naked a little over a week ago and lost my virginity. I tried not to stare at the spot or think about that night. I needed to focus, anyway. The rest of the Hales were already seated, and, judging by Macalister’s irritated expression, they’d been waiting for us.

  He sat at the head of the table, Alice to his right and his younger son Vance beside her. I worried for a moment the empty seat next to Macalister was for me, but Royce pulled out the farther chair and gestured to it.

  “Thank you,” I uttered automatically, dropping down into the seat.

  Royce said nothing. He sat and plunked his phone face-up on the table beside the silver charging plate. I braced for Macalister to say something about how disrespectful that was. Phones weren’t allowed at the dinner table in my house . . . but here everyone had theirs out, resting beside their silverware like it was a required utensil in their place setting.

  A woman I hadn’t met before, but who was clearly part of the Hale household staff, entered from the kitchen and served us salads. Alice first, then me, and then the Hale men in order of seniority. It was stilted and formal, and so uncomfortable it stretched my skin tightly. No one else seemed to feel it, though. In the silence, they readied their forks and began eating, oblivious to my discomfort.

  “Marist. How did you find your first night here?” Macalister’s icy gaze locked onto me and refused to let go.

  “It was fine, thank you.” I despised how weak my voice sounded. Silence followed, dragging painfully, and I felt compelled to fill it. I forced a bright tone. “How was your day?”

  It was like I’d just asked him what color money was. He simply stared, making me wince and my skin stretch tighter still.

  “It was fine,” he said finally. His attention left me so he could stab his fork into his salad, and then he focused on his youngest son. “I volunteered you to Lambert’s team for the Marblehead race at the end of the summer. One of their crew members broke a hand, and I told him you would help out.”

  Vance blinked. He struggled to process the information but failed to conceal the dislike from his boyishly good-looking face. It wasn’t the sailing that bothered him. The Hales were the founding members of the Cape Hill Yacht Club, and Vance was an experienced helmsman. He had plenty of racing trophies to prove it.

  No, I suspected it was Wayne Lambert who was giving him pause.

  Mr. Lambert was the CEO of a giant pharmaceutical company. He had a very large and very New York personality, only moving here in the last decade so his daughters could attend Cape Hill Prep. Foul-mouthed and hot-tempered, he had one of those booming laughs that made a room go awkwardly quiet. He was loud in everything he did. And he was new money.

  Which meant he was the polar opposite of Macalister Hale.

  The two CEOs of Cape Hill seemed unlikely to be friends, so I had to wonder what was going on. Macalister wouldn’t put up with Mr. Lambert without a good reason.

  “His daughter is also on the crew,” Macalister added. “Alice and I discussed it and feel she would be a good companion for the anniversary celebration.”

  Vance’s pointed gaze swung toward Alice, and I couldn’t help but think about the last time I’d seen them together. She’d been on her knees, her hands fisted in the undone sides of his tuxedo pants and his dick buried in her mouth.

  Her expression toward her stepson now was tepid. “Royce’s party was one thing, but this is huge. HBHC is turning one hundred and fifty years old, and you’re a Hale. You have to bring a date.”

  Royce interrupted the wordless conversation going on between his brother and his stepmother. “Which daughter? Lambert has two.”

  “The older one,” Macalister said.

  “Jillian,” Alice said at the same time.

  Royce turned his attention to his brother. “Be careful. She’s a stage-five clinger.”

  Vance arched one eyebrow. “You dated her?”

  “Yeah, I think ‘date’ would be too strong a word.” The amused look on Royce’s face froze, as if he just realized his fiancée was sitting right beside him while he was talking about fucking someone else.

  Was I supposed to care about this? Because . . . I didn’t. It certainly wasn’t news to me that he’d been a player, and besides—he’d betrayed me. I wasn’t supposed to care about him.

  He stared at me anxiously, not sure how I’d react.

  I shrugged a shoulder. “Good luck, Vance. Last I heard, she has a boyfriend.”

  A scoff came from the end of the table.

  Macalister’s gaze was an avalanche. Cold, terrifying, and beautiful. “That doesn’t matter. When he asks her,” he turned his head so he could decree it directly to Vance, “and he will ask her—she’ll be pleased to trade up to a Hale.” His eyes turned smug. “They always are.”

  If I’d been standing, the arrogance in his tone would have knocked me over, but he was wrong. My sister Emily had no desire to trade up to a Hale. She’d been promised to Royce for years and did everything she could to get out of it, including getting pregnant.

  Alice set her fork down and picked up her phone. “Since we’re discussing the anniversary, I have a mockup of the invitation to show you.” She tapped the screen a few times before presenting it to her husband.

  Disdain flooded his face. “This isn’t serious. A masquerade party?”

  Her lips pressed into a thin line. “This is what you asked for.”

  “I believe I asked for something memorable and sophisticated.” He set her phone down and pointed at the screen. “This isn’t elegant, it’s a junior prom.”

  Alice tossed a lock of her blonde hair over her shoulder, crossed her arms, and rested them on the table, leaning forward. “This will be elegant, I promise you. It will still be black-tie.” Her posture was confident, announcing she wasn’t going to be deterred. “You can’t be memorable unless you go over the top. Otherwise, it’ll just be another bland corporate party, indistinguishable from all the others. You want this to be an experience, one people will be talking about for the next one hundred and fifty years.”

  Macalister wasn’t sold, but as he leaned back in his chair, it was clear he was considering what she’d said.

  “When people think their identity is obscured, even somewhat,” a sly smile graced her lips, “they let go of their inhibitions. Think about the guest list. Wouldn’t you love to have an evening where everyone has their guard down?”

  My mouth dropped open. She’d just offered Macalister one of the things he valued most. The highest commodity in our elite New England town.

  Information.

  It’d be his best opportunity to learn all the secrets Cape Hill was desperate to conceal.

  His gaze sharpened on his clever wife, and genuine delight flashed through him. He wasn’t on the fence about her theme anymore—he was in absolute support of it.

  “I trust your judgement,” he said. “You understand how important this event is to me and my company.” He paused as the temperature of his voice plummeted. “I’m sure it won’t just meet my expectations—but exceed them.”

  It was like he’d just barely left of the “or else” threat at the end of his statement, and I swallowed hard on Alice’s behalf. She didn’t seem affected, though. Either she felt confident in her abilities or she’d been married to
him long enough she was used to it.

  “Speaking of expectations,” his attention returned to me, and I struggled not to squirm in my seat, “after dinner is over, I have some items to go over with you. We can discuss them in the library.”

  Royce asked it before I could. “What items?”

  His father’s cool gaze turned to his oldest son. “Things that are none of your business.”

  My heart launched into my throat, clogging my airway until it was nearly impossible to breathe. The mood in the room sank faster than a company’s stock after reporting a huge loss. Alice and Vance tensed.

  But Royce’s chest puffed up, and he took on a dark cast. “Anything that has to do with Marist is my business.”

  Macalister gave his son a look that screamed, is that so? In his mind, Royce had sold those rights away. The oldest Hale laced his fingers together on the tabletop, and as he sat in the ornate chair at the head of the table, he resembled a king on a throne. One who looked very much like he wanted to put the prince back in his place.

  “We have an agreement,” Macalister said. “I promised to keep her updated on her family’s financial situation.” His piercing eyes curved back to me. “I don’t see a need for Royce to be included on that. Do you?”

  Beneath the table, Royce’s hand latched onto my thigh, just above my knee. His warm palm tingled against the bare skin of my leg, but I tried not to notice. The action might have seemed affection to anyone else, but this was a warning. He was saying it was dangerous, telling me to be careful.

  I understood what was happening and how I was playing directly into Macalister’s hand. And while I didn’t want to be alone with him, his offer was too good to pass up. Royce withheld information from me, and tonight I would do the same.

  I pushed his hand off my knee as I looked at his father. “No,” I said firmly. “I don’t see a reason either.”

  The pleased smile on Macalister’s face twisted my insides.

  Tension rolled off Royce throughout dinner and permeated the room. Not that it would have been an enjoyable meal otherwise. Once the main course had been served, I realized these weekly dinners were merely business meetings for Macalister to preside over and ensure all his family members were carrying out the directions he gave.

  As soon as we were dismissed, my fiancé turned in his seat and put a hand on the back of my chair. His voice was low and urgent. “Don’t be alone with him.”

  I sucked in a breath. “Why? What are you worried is going to happen?”

  Royce’s eyes darted away. “He’s manipulative.”

  I did my best to hold in an incredulous laugh. “Oh, I see. Your worry isn’t about me . . . it’s what he might say about you.”

  His gaze snapped back to me. “Let me come with you.”

  He didn’t bother to deny my accusation. My spine hardened, either with pride or vindictiveness or both, and I pushed back from the table. “No.”

  He followed me up, and his voice edged toward frustration. “Marist, please—”

  “This is your own doing. You keep me out of your business, so I’m allowed to do the same.”

  He frowned and desperation ringed his eyes, but I refused to waver. I couldn’t rely on Royce to save me. I’d have to do it myself.

  As I marched out of the dining room, he fell into step at my side, not arguing or attempting to slow me down. We both knew his father was waiting for me.

  It was fitting the library was on the second floor. We climbed the stairs and ascended toward Mount Olympus while I, the mortal, mentally prepared as best I could for my audience with the god Zeus.

  FOUR

  MACALISTER WASN’T SEATED BEHIND THE DESK like I’d expected. He stood with his broad back to me and appeared to be cataloguing the books on the shelf. While he was already a tall man, the walls lined with bookcases somehow exaggerated his height.

  As if he needed any help looking imposing.

  The library was warm colors. It had an old-world feel and a relaxed ease, but in his perfect black suit and tie, he looked out of place. At my entrance, he turned just enough to glance at me over his shoulder. “Shut the door.” I did as asked, my breath tight in my lungs. He gestured to a chair. “Have a seat.”

  I lowered into one cautiously, my gaze never straying from him. I had the irrational fear that if I took my eyes off him for a single second, he’d use that moment to strike. It was a ridiculous thought. Macalister wouldn’t come at me physically. His attack would be subtle. He’d use precise, surgical words rather than his hands to undo me.

  He didn’t sit behind the desk. Instead, he took the seat beside me, causing more alert to spike through my body. Perhaps he’d done it to dispel the power dynamic and try to treat me as an equal, but I highly doubted it. More likely, his goal had been to remove the barrier that stood between us yesterday.

  He lifted a sheet of paper off the desk and passed it to me. “The situation with your family is more dire than we anticipated. This is a summary of their debt.”

  I stared at the figures.

  Disbelief slapped me across the face. My heart quickened until it beat so fast, blood roared in my ears. This couldn’t be right. I tried to read the page through the tears blurring my vision, but then it abruptly became easier. Anger flared and burned the tears up before they could fall.

  Five million dollars had been deposited into their account, and it had only made a dent. I’d whored myself out for that money, and it wasn’t even enough.

  My teeth ground together so hard, my jaw threatened to crack. I tossed the summary report bitterly onto the desk, not wanting to look at the figures another second, wishing I could make them go away just as easily for my parents.

  Macalister noted my reaction before speaking. “You’re understandably upset. I was too when this was brought to my attention. They’ve been treading water, hoping for a lifeline to come save them. There was no other plan.” His tone was as dark as the black ink he used in his signature. “And that infuriates me.”

  I’d always thought of anger as a blazing emotion, full of fire and urgency. But in Macalister Hale, anger was cloaked in ice. It was an arctic slide into freezing water, where relentless pins-and-needles slowly trapped and consumed everything.

  “I had no idea,” I said quietly. “If I had—”

  His eyes widened with surprise. “You misunderstand. I’m not accusing you. They shamefully kept this from you and your sister.” He set an elbow on the armrest closest to me, and his silver cufflink glinted. “It doesn’t change the situation, however. If something were to happen to your parents, their estate would be insolvent. You and Emily would have to liquidate the house, which wouldn’t be enough. You’d be left with nothing except the considerable credit card debt you co-signed with your parents.”

  An invisible hand reached inside my body, and its furious fingers curled around my heart, squeezing to the point of pain. I set my palm flat against my chest. “I should have asked questions.”

  “Yes, you should have.” His expression was plain, but not cruel. “A painful lesson learned.”

  His gaze wandered over my face, not so much studying it, but tracing each line and curve. He examined me like a financial report he couldn’t get to balance. Frustrated and curious, and also intrigued. I dropped my gaze to my knees peeking out below my dress.

  “I’ve set up an account in your name,” he said, “with enough money to cover your tuition for your final year at Etonsons, along with general expenses. Any single purchase above five thousand will require my approval, but you will have anything you need.”

  Surprise drew my gaze back to him, but skepticism took over. I was terrified of what he’d want in return. “In exchange for?”

  Macalister’s blue eyes blinked. “In exchange for you receiving a first-rate education. I’ve seen your transcripts and know you’re an exceptional student. I only want to see you achieve your full potential.”

  I stumbled over his words before they truly hit me. “I didn’t
give Etonsons permission to release my transcripts.”

  It was the first time I’d ever seen amusement play out on Macalister’s face. His full lips lifted just enough to be classified as a smile. “Do you think that was difficult for me?”

  “No,” I said dimly. I echoed what he’d told me at my interview in his boardroom. “There’s no problem big enough money can’t solve.”

  “Yes.” He was pleased I remembered. “Your coursework has been excellent so far, but I have some thoughts about your options for next semester.”

  Of course he did.

  “I am curious, though.” He leaned closer, like he was capable of holding a friendly conversation with me. “What is it about economics that appeals to you?”

  I floundered. How was I supposed to put it into words? I had to give him an answer. “I . . . like variables.”

  He paused. “Excuse me?”

  “Math is precise.” I tucked a lock of hair behind my ear as I assembled my thoughts. “You always know the answer, where one plus one equals two. But in economics, everything can be equal and still not give you the answer you expect. The exact same product sold in a perfectly competitive market can be a boon for one company and a bust for another.”

  I was aware I was speaking in simplistic terms to a man who was likely more intelligent than I was, but he made me nervous. At least I sounded coherent.

  “Maybe their manufacturing costs are too high,” I continued, “or their marketing was off, or they’ve priced themselves too competitively. I want to know what’s causing it. I like finding the variable.”

  Macalister made a noise of satisfaction, even as he shook his head. “You like puzzles,” he corrected.

  “Yes,” I said. He wasn’t wrong. “I like a very specific type of puzzle.”

  When a genuine smile expanded on his lips, he didn’t look quite so terrifying. He simply looked mortal. “I also like puzzles.” He tilted his head an evaluating degree. “How did you find your game theory class?”