The Obsession (Filthy Rich Americans 2)

His hand was resting on the desktop, and it curled into a fist, his thumb brushing back and forth over his fingers absentmindedly. He was deep in thought, figuring out how to get what he wanted.

“Keep it,” he said abruptly. “It was a gift, and you’ll change your mind.”

My voice was steel. “I won’t.”

The setting sun outside the window cast a soft glow across his face, but the warmth didn’t touch him. His expression was absolute.

“We’ll see.”

Since I’d confessed my sins to Royce, he’d largely steered clear of me. There were no more offers to leave the grounds and go someplace where his father’s rules didn’t apply. We continued our charade of being a lovestruck couple when we were in public, but as soon as we were safely out of view, he’d drop my hand and dig out his phone.

To be fair, he did have a lot on his mind.

I hadn’t let on that I’d figured out his plan. I wasn’t sure what to do with the information, partially because I only knew the broad details. I had no idea when he was going to pull the trigger on it, or if his offer to buy Ascension would be friendly or hostile.

And even if he acquired his target company, what then? He had a lot of HBHC stock personally, but once Macalister got a hint of what his son was planning, he’d employ all the defenses available to keep his company in his hands.

Takeover attempts were expensive for everyone involved, and most of the time they failed.

The odds were so heavily stacked in Macalister’s favor, it was shocking to me Royce was even considering it. Yet he’d been planning this thing for a while. It had to have taken him years to accrue that much Ascension stock on the open market.

I could disrupt his life so easily now. One careless mention to Macalister as we played our nightly chess game, and Royce’s plan would disintegrate. And it was probably in his best interest if I stopped him now, before he lost everything. Macalister would take away Royce’s seat, and what was left of their strained father-son relationship would implode, but at least my future husband wouldn’t go broke.

I had good reasons to tell Macalister what I knew, and yet every night I couldn’t bring myself to do it. For weeks, we played, he talked, and I lost each night. It was like we were stuck on repeat.

The first week of my final year at Etonsons was surreal. It felt like I was back in my old life. I sat in the lecture hall, disappearing amongst all the other faceless students . . . until I noticed the magazine the girl in the row in front of me was reading before class began.

Our engagement pictures had been released to the media last week. Alice had selected two. One where I was sitting on Royce’s lap beneath the fountain, and a closeup where he was kissing my hand, showing off the stunning engagement ring. The first time I’d seen the photos, they’d taken my breath away.

Sophia Alby had said Royce and I were a fairytale, one that everyone wanted to be a part of. But I was convinced no one truly wanted that fairytale story more than I did. The camera made a very convincing liar out of me. It all looked so real.

On a Friday, I met Alice in the lobby of the dress store. Donna Willow, the designer who’d dressed us both for Royce’s promotion party, had flown in exclusively to show us her designs for the anniversary gala. It was quite the contrast from the shopping experience last month with my mother who, as I’d feared, had tried to exceed her budget and asked for my help convincing the financial manager to give her more money.

She had caviar tastes and would never get used to having to live on a tuna fish budget.

The designer, wearing all black, stood next to a rack of her dresses and supervised her assistant as the girl steamed wrinkles out of the garments. When she saw us, Donna smiled and gestured for the assistant to stop.

“Alice,” Donna said, “I swear you look younger every time I see you. How are you?”

I stood awkwardly by my future step-mother-in-law’s side while she chatted with her friend. It was only the first week of classes, and I already had a ton of work to do, so I was hoping this appointment would go quickly.

Donna pulled a peacock blue dress down off the rack, handed it to Alice, and sent her off toward the dressing room. There was no discussion between the women. No comments about color or any other options presented.

“Now,” she set her sights on me, “do you trust me?”

Of all the people I’d gotten to know over the last few months, ironically, Donna Willow was the person I trusted most. “I do.”