The Obsession (Filthy Rich Americans 2)

He stood so quickly the chair banged back against the bookshelf. “One game a week.”

My hesitation made him elaborate.

“We’ll revise our agreement. Instead of every night, we’ll only play once a week.”

I was so tired. “In exchange for?”

“Nothing.” He let out a begrudging sigh. “I can’t make you enjoy the game, and certainly not if we stop playing altogether.”

This was a better outcome than I’d hoped for, but I gave him a discerning, wary look. What was the catch?

“This is more than fair,” he added with irritation. “I’ve allowed you multiple times to change the rules. Last night, for example.”

I sucked in a sharp breath. He’d given me partial freedom, even when I’d lost. “Fine,” I snapped. “But tonight counts.”

Meaning I had a whole week where I didn’t have to see him. I walked toward the door, no longer feeling like Atlas holding up the sky on my shoulders. I wanted to hurry out before he changed his mind.

“Marist.” Macalister said my name like he was summoning a servant. “You may want to say your goodbyes to Royce. There’s a financial reporting symposium in Sydney next week that I’ve decided to send him to. I think he could use the experience.”

I turned in place, staring at him with wide eyes. “What?”

“He’ll be back in time for the anniversary gala next weekend, but he’ll need to leave tonight.” Macalister picked up the white king and put it back in its spot.

I ground my teeth and swallowed my anger. It was absolutely clear what he’d done, and I wasn’t going to let him get away with it. “You said you weren’t going to interfere.”

His dark expression pinned me in place. “And I haven’t. I don’t see how I can do anything if he won’t even be here.” He smoothed a hand down his tie as if he could brush away my feelings that easily. Desire seeped in and pooled in his eyes. “I look forward to our next game.”

I fled the library without another word.

Ironically, I saw Royce more the following week than I did Macalister, even though my fiancé was on the other side of the world. He’d FaceTimed me twice during the week. Because of the time change, I’d come home from class in the evenings, and he was just waking up and preparing for his days at the conference.

Now, it was Saturday. He’d landed late last night, come to the house, and gone straight to his bed. He’d likely sleep until it was time to go to the gala. I wouldn’t see him until he was wrapped in a tuxedo and wearing his mask.

Alice’s hair and makeup team had dismissed me from her room ten minutes ago. I’d fought hard to wear my hair down, and she’d finally agreed when the hairdresser backed me up. Medusa’s snakes shouldn’t be pinned away.

But it meant I had to don my mask hours before the party tonight, so the woman could style my hair around it and hide the band that held it in place. I was still adjusting to its heavy weight on the bridge of my nose as I stared at my reflection in the full-length mirror in my room.

I didn’t think any jewelry could compete with my great-grandmother’s necklace, but I’d been wrong. I was wearing the necklace now, the diamonds draped around my throat like a wreath, but my gaze kept working its way back to my face. I loved the way the delicate snakes weaved and chased each other in a lacy pattern.

The only color on me right now, besides the tiny emerald eyes of the snakes, was my vividly stained red lips. I had on a short, white silk robe over my black strapless bra and panties. I’d been instructed not to put on my dress until it was almost time to leave. Alice didn’t trust me to keep it free of wrinkles and accidents, and it was of the utmost importance we all looked flawless when we arrived at the venue, according to her.

But I longed to put on the dress. I eyed it hanging on the door to my closet, itching to finish my transformation. How was I going to survive another thirty minutes?

There was a short knock on my door, but it pushed open before I could acknowledge it, which meant it couldn’t be anyone else. Macalister didn’t wait. He owned this house and this room, and he felt he should be able to come and go as he pleased.

I spun to face him, my hands immediately going to the sash of my robe to make sure it was cinched tight. It didn’t matter that I was covered—I felt naked.

I wasn’t; I was just horribly underdressed.

Was it the same tuxedo he’d worn during the initiation? It was a rich black, and the lapels had a faint sheen to them. Black buttons dotted a line up his white shirt, ending in a perfectly tied black bow at his throat. He wasn’t wearing his mask yet. Perhaps he thought it was beneath him and would only put it on when we were in the limo, heading to the Harbor Plaza.