The Redemption (Filthy Rich Americans 4)

“Marist told me.” He sounded smug. “That’s what you get for dipping your pen in the company ink.”

“Watch it,” I growled. “It wasn’t like that.” I needed to correct myself, because as far as I was concerned, we weren’t over. “It isn’t like that.”

I pulled on underwear and a pair of suit pants before sticking my head out to glare at him, only to find him smiling.

“What?” I demanded.

“This is great.” He pointed his finger to me, then him, then back again. “You fucking up and me getting to play the role of judgmental asshole. It’s way more fun from this side.”

I sighed, too tired to spar with him, and Stephen Alby’s words rang in my ears. Royce was being a jerk, but at least he was talking to me. I moved to the bathroom to finish getting ready, and he stood in the doorway watching me.

“I came up here,” he said, “to see what your plans were after this thing is over. I’ve got something to discuss with you.”

I pulled up my calendar on my phone, which I should have done earlier, and scanned it. “This is all I have on my schedule for the day. What is it?” He gave me a cryptic look, which I found irritating. “Is it bad?”

“That depends on you.” He straightened. “I’ll see you down there.”

As soon as he was gone, I opened Instagram to see if Sophia had posted anything new, but something was wrong. Her account suddenly had no posts. Surely, she hadn’t deleted her account.

No, she hadn’t.

A quick Google search revealed she’d blocked me, and I raised an eyebrow in displeasure.

We took the Hale family portraits at the center of the maze, staged around the fountain. I sat on the bench while my sons flanked me on either side, and Marist in her maroon dress stood beside her husband.

Penelope Marino seemed shy and nervous when she greeted us, which didn’t help the tension my family had with me, but once she began checking her light meter and taking test photos, she settled. Her directions were confident and surprisingly humorous, allowing her to catch natural smiles. She showed me a few in the display screen, and I was pleased with the results.

“Thank you for doing this,” I announced to everyone when we finished.

My family stared at me like I’d spoken in a language they didn’t understand, and perhaps that was true. Gratitude wasn’t something I’d expressed much of in the past.

After Vance left and Marist went in the house to visit with Lucifer, Royce fell into step beside me, walking the grounds. It was a beautiful October day, and the leaves were brilliant colors in the forest beyond the maze.

“Why’d you want to take a portrait?” he asked.

“The spot at the top of the landing is empty. We’ve always hung a family portrait there.”

His footsteps slowed. “I should probably warn you. It’s going to be out of date in about seven months.”

I stopped and turned to face him, finding his expression guarded. He was nervous, unsure of how I would take the news. “Marist is pregnant?”

“We were going to wait until she finished her Masters, but . . . oops.”

I studied him and saw the excitement he tried to hide from me, but it was unnecessary. I remembered that feeling well. The exhilaration over creating something unique and lasting with the woman you loved. “You were the same for your mother and me.” I lifted the corner of my mouth, attempting a smile. “We meant to wait, but in hindsight, I’m glad we didn’t.”

My statement caught him off-guard, and he gave a subtle shake of his head, like he was trying to clear his disorientation. “We haven’t told anyone yet, other than Vance. She’s only nine weeks along.”

It came from me without hesitation and in a warm voice. “Congratulations.”

Royce drew in a heavy breath. “Are you all right?”

I’d tried to take his wife from him, and still he worried about me. For years, I’d thought he didn’t deserve her, that I was the better man, and I’d been wrong. “Yes. I’m happy for you both.”

“Okay, good.” Relief lightened his shoulders, and he smiled. “You’re going to be a grandfather.”

I suddenly felt all fifty-five of my years, and what I needed to do came into perfect focus. “You’ll move back into the house.”

“What?”

I set my gaze squarely on him, seeing all the traces of his mother, and I wished to undo so many things, but all I could do was move forward. “I’m sorry I wasn’t a better father to you and your brother, and I’m sorry for what I did—and tried to do—with Marist.”

Unease flooded through him, and he took a step back like he needed to regroup and evaluate what angle this attack was coming from.

“I’m sorry,” I continued, “that my presence has made you uncomfortable in your own home, but I can correct that.” This was what Julia would have wanted. “The house is yours. I’ll have my lawyers start the paperwork to transfer it to you, and I’ll move out as soon as I find a place.”