The Initiation (Filthy Rich Americans 1)

The jerk was probably right.

When it was safe, I put my gaze back on him and pinned him in place. “It screwed with my head.” A tremble rumbled through my shoulders, so I cross my arms to hold it in. My voice dropped to a whisper. “I think I fucked up.”

Alarm rushed through his expression, but he tried to downplay it, being strong for my benefit. Once again, he moved in and put his arms around me. “I’m sure you did fine.”

It should have felt weird, but I welcomed his offer of comfort. I’d pushed him away the first time, but now I desperately needed it. I gripped the lapels of his suit and peered up into his piercing eyes. They were like multifaceted jewels. Pale blue, and then ringed with dark sapphire at the outer edges.

“I told them I waited for you.”

He took in a deep breath, but otherwise he didn’t react. “So?”

“So . . . your father knows you asked me to wait because you want to be my first.”

Again, there was little reaction from him, but movement sparked behind his eyes, like he was entering crisis mode. “That’s fine.”

“You should have seen his face, though,” I warned.

He shrugged it off. “Whatever happens, we’ll figure it out.”

My heart beat a little faster. He could have easily said I’ll figure it out, but instead he’d said we. It had rolled so naturally off his lips. He saw us as a pair.

The phone on his desk rang in a jarring trill, forcing him to release me. He walked to it and punched a button. “This is Royce.”

Macalister’s voice filtered through the electronic speaker and turned my bones to ice. “You should have told me she was a virgin.” I pictured the irritation on his face. “Of course, they ate that up. The board loves her.”

Royce glanced over his shoulder and flashed a sly smile. Oh, my God. This was the ‘ace up my sleeve’ he’d mentioned. Once again, I was annoyed by how big of a deal men made about women’s virginity.

“I guess it went well?” he asked his father.

“She was . . . surprising,” Macalister said. “I told her this already, but just to be clear—you don’t touch her before the initiation.”

Royce’s smile soured. “I understand.”

There was rustling on the other end, followed by a distinct click as his father hung up.

I stood in the dressing room of the designer dress shop, watching the Instagram notifications blow up my phone.

The week following the interview had been worse than the previous.

My preparation lessons with Alice had been replaced with meetings about Royce’s party. Since I had passed the first stage of the approval process, things grew more serious. Being Royce’s wife basically meant I’d be a project manager. I’d be tasked with planning events and making all the decisions he couldn’t be bothered with.

This was my audition.

I’d sat in on meetings with florists about centerpieces and inspected table linen samples, all while Alice watched over and second-guessed every decision I’d been forced to make. I didn’t care whether the tables were round or long rectangles, or if the invitations were embossed or letterpress.

But I pretended I did. I smiled and nodded and Instagrammed what she encouraged me to. I developed the narrative of the happy girlfriend swept away with excitement at planning a celebration for the man of her dreams. I played the role everyone wanted me to be.

Everyone, except for me.

Each selection I made felt like I was blindly filling in a test answer bubble, praying it was right. Once the RSVPs started to come in, it became more complicated. Everyone wanted to be there. This was going to be the party of the decade. It had been thirteen years since anyone had ascended to the board, and Royce wasn’t going to be just any board member—he was supposed to take over for Macalister when his father retired.

Media outlets wanted in on the celebration. Once it was clear I was Royce’s girlfriend and in charge of his party, I’d started getting requests from everywhere. People who’d shunned me in high school were suddenly obnoxiously friendly. Style editors and Instagram influencers followed me and sent direct messages, hoping to score an invite.

I tried not to let it go to my head, but it was a trip.

All those people who had treated me like I had a social disease were suddenly climbing over each other to be my friend. The petty part of me enjoyed it a little.

Alice’s favorite designer was in Boston for a trunk show, and she’d scheduled an appointment for both of us this evening. I hadn’t known Royce was coming until he’d appeared on the couch in the lobby of the store, looking annoyingly sexy. He’d come straight from the office, and his tie was stuffed haphazardly in the pocket of his blue suit coat.