This was the last time I’d see Royce before my final meeting with the board. The initiation, as he and his father had called it. He’d had his driver pick me up, and we rode in the back of the car alternating between stilted conversation and uncomfortable silence. Royce seemed as agitated as I was, but he did a better job at trying not to reveal it.
Maybe he was nervous about the promotion, and not whether he could perform in front of eight other dudes, one of whom was his father.
I was under no delusions what this “date” really was—a photo op. A show. We would get ice cream, then go for a hand-in-hand stroll down Cape Hill’s main street to maximize viewing opportunities for the public. Some of the guests for Royce’s celebration had already arrived, and since the town was small, it was likely we’d run into people.
“Are you okay?” he asked, stabbing his spoon into his hot fudge sundae. “You seem weird.”
“Yeah,” I said coolly. “You too.”
He frowned, pressing his lips together.
The shop was decorated like an old-fashioned ice cream parlor. It had pink and cream striped wallpaper and white wrought iron chairs with patterned seat cushions. The ice cream dishes were tulip shaped and footed. It was like the 1950s, and I didn’t need a reminder of a time where wives were expected to be subservient to their husbands.
“Saturday’s going to be difficult.” He wiped his face with his napkin, wadded it up, and tossed it on the table. Then he leaned back in his chair and gave me a serious look.
My breath caught. “Difficult how, exactly?”
“We hate parties, remember?”
“Oh. Right.” My mood worsened. For a hot second, I’d thought he was going to tell me. But, no.
Last night as I lay awake in my bed, I came fully to terms with it. I’d adapt. I’d give him every opportunity to confess what was going to happen, but if he didn’t—I wasn’t going to let on that I knew. Information was power, and I’d hold on to it as long as I could. Let him see how much he liked being left in the dark.
I tried to envision what the initiation would be like. It lined my stomach with lead, but also made me uncomfortably hot. Tension wrapped around my body, cinched me tight and kept me still as I burned from the inside out. It was scary and wrong, and I was willing to admit to myself a little exciting too. The big picture was I’d get what I wanted.
Maybe I was prepared to win at all costs to get Royce.
It was June and summer was in full swing, and the ice cream place was busy. I hadn’t noticed the blonde girl waving at me until we locked eyes. I wanted to turn and look behind me to see who she was waving at, until I remembered we were seated in the corner and there was no one else it could be.
Noemi Rosso was waving at me.
She rose gingerly from her seat, careful of her pregnant belly, and made her way over to me.
“Emily, right?” she said, extending a hand.
My smile froze. Of course, she thought I was my sister. I’d only met the heiress a few times. Her father owned a media empire, and like Royce, she was poised to take control when he retired. Rosso was as much a household name as Hale was.
“Actually,” Royce said, turning in his seat, “this is Marist, not—”
He blinked at the sight of the woman, and a smile flashed across his lips as he pushed back his chair to stand.
“Noemi.” His tone was warm. “Good to see you.”
“Royce.” She grinned.
Although they clasped hands in a businesslike handshake, it all seemed so familiar, and an unwanted emotion spiked through me. I’d never seen him act sincerely friendly before. It probably didn’t help that Noemi was beautiful. She was close to him in age, maybe the same or a year older.
“Congratulations on the promotion,” she said. Her hand fell to rest on her belly, and the wedding rings glittered on her finger.
“Thanks. I was surprised you decided to come.”
“Of course. This worked out great. Joseph and I wanted to get out of Chicago for a weekend while it was still just the two of us.” She gave a sly smile to the man I hadn’t noticed standing beside her until now. “I don’t think you’ve met my husband. This is Joseph Monsato.”
The men engaged in a cursory handshake and exchanged hellos.
I didn’t follow the gossip rags, but there was no avoiding the story. Noemi’s husband was at least fifteen years older than she was, and soon after they’d eloped, she’d gotten pregnant. The tabloids accused him of seducing her for her money, and most of the stories downplayed how he had money of his own.