The Initiation (Filthy Rich Americans 1)

“Is it possible to die of shame?” She stared up at the ceiling, trying hopelessly to blink back her tears. “I want to. I’m so fucking embarrassed and miserable.”

I had no idea what to say. I wasn’t good at sugarcoating things, and my sister wasn’t an idiot. She knew this wasn’t something Macalister would quickly forgive or forget.

When I lingered awkwardly in the doorway, her expression changed to one filled with worry. “What now?”

“Are you pregnant?”

I’d whispered it, but her reaction was as if I’d screamed it at her. My sister’s eyes expanded with shock, and then guilt spread through them like red wine spilled on a white tablecloth. Her gaze fell to her feet. “I’m . . . three weeks late.”

“Three?” I had a million questions, but the practical one came out first and in a rush. “Shit, why haven’t you taken a test?”

She shoved away from the sink and pressed the back of her hand to her lips. “Because,” she said in a hush, “I know what it’s going to say, and I don’t want it to, okay?” Tears ran down her cheeks and dripped onto the travertine tile.

My heart broke a little. Not just for her, but selfishly for myself. She’d suspected for weeks and not confided in me. How many secrets was she keeping? “Whose is it?”

“I haven’t told him yet.”

“Em.”

“He’s married. Oh, God, I’m a terrible person.” She shut her eyes, squeezing out a fresh batch of tears. “It’s . . . Dr. Galliat.”

“Your psychology professor?”

She nodded. “What the hell am I going to do?”

“Well, you’re not marrying Royce Hale, for starters.” I put my hand on her shoulder and pulled her close, crushing her into a hug. “It’s all right,” I murmured. “Everything’s going to be okay.”

I held her reassuringly while the sobs wracked her body, not caring if her tears were staining my dress. I wondered if this baby could be a blessing in disguise. I certainly couldn’t imagine Macalister as a father-in-law and didn’t want us involved with the Hale family any more than we already were. It already felt like too much.

By the time I returned to the dining room, everything was back the way it had been at the start of lunch—except for the faint, lingering smell of disinfectant. Everyone was seated and appeared calm, but the tension was so strong, it invaded my senses like a thick paste.

“How is she?” my mother asked.

Royce took one look at me and smirked. “Pregnant. You owe me a hundred dollars.”

Macalister didn’t react with his face. He was perfectly composed even as he slammed a fist on the table so hard it created an enormous boom and made the silverware dance on the plates. Royce sobered, and for the first time I could remember, he looked nervous.

“That is unacceptable.” Macalister’s eyes were an intense Nor’easter, and I locked my knees before the hurricane-force winds knocked me down.

My parents were stunned, but the blow to the table seemed to knock my mother back to life. She pushed back her chair. “Please excuse me.”

“Sit down.”

At Macalister’s snarl, she froze halfway out of her seat but then straightened until she stood tall, her backbone hardening. “No. I need to speak with my daughter.”

“In a minute,” he ordered. “You’ll hear what I have to say first.” His attention slithered my direction. “Take your seat. This involves you now, Marist.”

He hardly ever said my name, and for that, I was grateful, because I always shuddered when he did. My feet moved independent of my mind to follow his order and bring me to my chair, and I fell into it while my heart rose into my throat.

“I’m not sure if you’re aware,” he adjusted the sleeves of his dress shirt beneath his suitcoat, “that the Northcott family has accrued so much debt, it’s likely you’ll declare bankruptcy by the end of the summer.”

I let out a short laugh.

What the hell was he talking about? I glanced around our dining room. The ornate, hand-carved table had enough seating for sixteen, and the curtains were Dupioni silk. We’d just had a meal cooked by our private chef and served by our live-in staff.

We had money in spades.

Yet . . .

When I glanced at my parents, they both looked like they’d swallowed the canary, and choked half to death on it.

“I don’t understand,” I said.

My grandparents, the ones I’d been named after, had left their enormous wealth to my mother. Besides that, my father’s annual salary was six figures. We had money in multiple markets. Property. Assets. There was no way bankruptcy was lurking around the corner. It just wasn’t fucking possible.

“A decade ago,” Macalister announced, “your father made a series of terrible investments. He chased the market for a while and dug a deeper hole. To stay afloat, they began draining their savings. You’re a student of economics at Etonsons, correct?”