The Obsession (Filthy Rich Americans 2)

“Shh.” He lowered his mouth to mine. “We’re in this together, remember?”

It was after midnight when the town car brought Royce and me home from Boston. My sister had been transferred to the top floor of Massachusetts General Hospital, into a spacious suite with a full sitting area, 1200-thread count sheets, and beautiful bay views.

The car pulled to a stop in the circle drive, and we sat motionless as the driver shut off the engine, climbed out of his seat, and rounded the back of the car to open my door. The silence between us wasn’t uncomfortable, but it was heavy.

Filled with all I wanted to say but couldn’t seem to get out.

There’d been a party at the marina tonight, and we were supposed to have made an appearance. Instead, Royce had spent it with my family. He was understandably uncomfortable with his memories of the hospital, but he hid it well. During the walk to the elevator this afternoon, we’d passed the Julia Hale Memorial fountain, and he’d turned his head the opposite direction.

When the driver opened my car door, I stayed put. I had to say something. Royce had done so much today.

“Hey. Thank you,” was all I got out.

It was woefully inadequate, but his smile was bright, shining better than the overhead light in the back seat. “I’m glad I could help.”

We climbed the steps to the front door, and as we went inside, I was struck with the realization that I’d referred to the Hale house as ‘home’ when talking to my family this evening. It didn’t feel like home, but then again . . . after the years of lies my parents had told me, the house I’d grown up in felt less like home every day.

If home wasn’t a place, but the people you surrounded yourself with, I was losing where I belonged.

“Good night,” Royce said when we’d both reached the doors to our bedrooms.

I gave him my first genuine smile in weeks. “Good night.”

He disappeared through his doorway, and a second later Lucifer’s lecturing meows rang out. The cat seemed to run on a schedule and grew irritated whenever Royce deviated from it.

There was a lamp shining in the sitting area of my room, which I assumed someone from the staff had put on when Royce had told them we wouldn’t be back until late in the evening. I set my purse down on the dresser and kicked off my shoes, so tired I considered climbing under the covers with the Dior dress still on, but then thought better of it.

Movement off to the side caught my attention, and by the time I turned to look at him, the man was already on his feet.

“Fuck,” I gasped. My face flushed hot, and I instantly hung my shoulders in embarrassment. “Macalister. You scared me.”

His expression was cold and indifferent, but icy fire burned in his eyes, threatening to incinerate me. “You’re late.”

Late? Was he serious? I gave a skeptical look. “For our game of chess?”

Most nights when we played, he’d come from the office and was still wearing his standard two-piece suit, but when Royce and I had backed out of the marina event, he must have gone in our place. He’d worn a three-piece but shed the jacket at some point before entering my room, leaving him in a smoke gray pinstripe vest and matching pants. The silver bar on his black tie glinted as he took a step in my direction.

The air dropped ten degrees with that action.

He stood and stared at me in such a demanding way that my pulse raced. It felt like I’d done something horribly wrong and he expected me to apologize.

“My sister’s in the hospital.”

Irritation simmered in him. “I am aware of that. It was my helicopter that brought in her doctor.”

He didn’t charge at me. He put one steady foot in front of the other in a slow march, an enemy advancing to invade.

“Oh. Thank you.” I couldn’t stop myself from backpedaling; it was the dresser that handled that. The drawers rattled as I bumped into it, and the sound stole his focus. Macalister was curious, like he didn’t understand why I was backing away from him.

We’d spent the last few weeks building a rapport, but it didn’t exist here in my room. This was supposed to be the safe space where I retreated after losing to him each night. But even this was an illusion. This room wasn’t mine—everything was his. Including me, he’d argue.

His presence was unrelenting.

“It’s late,” he said. “And you’ve kept me waiting.”

Was there extra meaning buried in his statement? I didn’t want to find out. I ripped my gaze away and padded on bare feet to the door. “Okay, I’m ready. Thank you for waiting.”

He followed me out of the room, and by the time he’d entered the library, I was already in my seat, my legs tucked up under the skirt of my dress and my white pawn positioned in my opening move.