The Initiation (Filthy Rich Americans 1)

Thanks to Royce’s cruel comment about me while I was in high school, I’d survived on the fringe of high society. I was certain the rest of my family wasn’t strong enough to do the same.

If our name was all we had left, then—fuck—I’d do everything in my power to keep it.

SEVEN

DIAMONDS AND SAPPHIRES GLITTERED in the glass box in front of me, and the modern crystal chandelier overhead sparkled, radiating rainbows down on the carpet. The store was decorated in creams and grays so it wouldn’t compete with the breathtaking gems on display. I was at the back, waiting patiently on the edge of my seat for the owner to meet me. For once, traffic had cooperated and the drive into Boston had only taken forty-five minutes, which meant I had arrived early for our appointment.

It forced me to stare at the jewelry locked in the case before me. The gorgeous diamonds were so clear, they looked cold and heavy. Was that how it would feel when Royce slipped an engagement ring on my finger? Like an anchor? I swallowed a breath and tucked a lock of my doomed green hair behind an ear.

“Ms. Northcott?”

The warm, male voice caused me to turn in my seat. “Yes. Sorry, I’m early.”

“No, you’re fine.”

The owner was in his fifties with thinning hair on top, but I liked how he’d buzzed it close rather than grow it long and comb it over. He wore wire-rimmed glasses and a jet-black suit that fit him perfectly.

“I’m Richard Costolli. It’s so nice to meet you.” When I pushed to my feet, he smiled. “Please, keep your seat. I was honored when your mother called.”

“She planned to come, but something came up,” I lied. “It’s just me. I hope that’s okay.”

The truth was my mother found this too difficult. It made our dire situation “too real.” My blood had run hot through my veins. I was doing everything in my power to bail them out, and I was pissed that still, I was the only responsible one.

“Of course. I hope everything is all right.” Mr. Costolli took the empty chair beside me, put one elbow on the glass case, and leaned forward. His expression was full of anticipation.

“Oh,” I said, glancing around. “Do I . . .”

“Right here will be fine.” His eyes gleamed just as much as the jewelry we were surrounded by. “I’m dying to see it.”

I bent down and pulled the blue, leather-bound case from my purse and set it on the glass counter. He ran a hand reverently over the top of the lid, trailing appreciative fingers over the embossed silver logo.

My mother had done the same this morning before handing the box to me, only her fingers had been forlorn, and her eyes filled with unshed tears.

“May I?” he asked, motioning to open it.

I nodded.

There was a sharp intake of breath as he lifted the hinged lid and gazed at the necklace seated on velvet. His voice dropped to a hush. “It’s stunning.”

“Thank you,” I said, my throat tight.

He was absolutely right. The diamond wreath necklace resting below the Harry Winston logo was the most beautiful piece of jewelry I’d ever seen. I’d never worn it, other than the few times growing up when my mother let me try it on.

The diamonds were set so they looked like vines covered in exquisite, faceted ice.

I didn’t know why I felt compelled to tell him, but the words tumbled from my mouth. “My great-grandfather surprised my great-grandmother with it to celebrate their twentieth anniversary. She nearly had a heart attack because I’m told he was . . .” I lowered my voice, “well, a cheap bastard.”

Mr. Costolli laughed, and I gave a forced smile, not wanting him to see how hard this was.

It must not have worked because he turned serious. His solemn expression said he understood whatever figure the necklace appraised for, its sentimental value to my family would far exceed that.

“My mother only wore it once, on the day she married my father,” I added.

Emily and I had both hoped to wear it on our wedding day. I didn’t want to sell it, but we were strapped for money, and insuring a necklace that appraised in the six figures was one of the many expenses we had to cut. I needed to soften the fall for my family if I failed to hold up my end of Macalister’s insane deal.

“This is a very special piece,” Mr. Costolli said quietly. He pulled out a jeweler’s loupe and examined the stones while I retrieved the envelope from my purse that contained all the paperwork he’d need to hold the necklace while it was prepared for auction.

When it was done, I took a final look at the necklace. I tried to ignore the pang of sadness lining my heart as I climbed to my feet. I said my goodbyes to Mr. Costolli, shouldered my purse, and headed for the entrance.