The Initiation (Filthy Rich Americans 1)

A whisper of something caught my attention. I turned and glanced at the case closest to the door. The rows of engagement rings glinted back, mocking me. I paused then changed course and went to the case.

The settings ran the gamut. Some were simple and understated, and some had no center stone set in them yet. Others were enormous or encrusted with jewels in elaborate designs.

Ever the salesman, Mr. Costolli’s tone was light, but hopeful. “See anything you like?”

“Just looking.” I gave a vague smile.

I wasn’t about to tell him the display filled me with dread. Besides, what I liked was irrelevant. I had no doubt Macalister would have a say in the ring I’d be forced to wear.

After rinsing the dye from my hair, the stylist sat me in his chair and swiveled it away from the mirror, wanting to give me the “grand reveal” when he was done. He’d been blowing out my hair for at least thirty minutes, and every now and again I’d get a flash of a newly-dark lock before it was brushed out of my line of sight.

“I’m sorry, Marist, but this is a mess.” Alice Hale stood across from me, clutched my phone in her hand, and used a manicured finger to scroll through my Instagram profile. Each swipe she made only deepened the crease in her forehead. “It’s all mythology stuff and random pictures of food. This tells me nothing about you. What’s your color story?”

“Color story?” I repeated over the incessant hairdryer.

Alice was classically beautiful. Her look was timeless, with her long blonde hair, big doe eyes, and skin that glowed. I’d swear she had a filter, like I was constantly viewing her through an old timey camera lens. She was luminescent.

Macalister’s second wife was ten years younger than he was, barely in her forties, and although she looked like a trophy wife, Alice was anything but. She was the vice president of marketing at HBHC, a creative genius, and one of the few people at the company who didn’t cower in fear of the boss. It helped she was sleeping with him.

But being married to Macalister came at a price, and she often searched for it at the bottom of a bottle of vodka. Her last stint at rehab seemed to take, though. She’d been ‘on’ and focused the whole time we’d been at the salon, and it had taken a while to cut and color my hair.

“Are you ready?” the stylist asked, but I wasn’t sure if he was talking to me or to Alice. In any case, he didn’t wait for an answer. The chair spun and, as I found my own gaze in the mirror, my lips parted on a deep breath.

“Well?” his voice teemed with pride. “What do you think?”

Alice glanced at my reflection, scrutinized his work, and nodded her approval. “So. Much. Better. Thank you, Sebastian.” She leaned over my shoulder, bringing her face beside mine in the mirror. “Now you look like—”

“My sister,” I interrupted.

“What?” Alice turned and peered at me with new eyes, considering my statement, but shrugged it off. “No. You look better than her.”

I had no idea how to feel about that.

Now that my hair was done, the makeup artist on standby stepped in like a surgeon waiting for the patient to be transferred to their care. She discussed palettes with Alice, and the women found the perfect day-to-evening look for me, all without having to address me directly. My input was not needed.

I wasn’t a tomboy. I liked dresses, and makeup, and feeling feminine, but there was no joy in this unwanted makeover. It wasn’t just my appearance, it was my whole persona they were determined to manipulate. To manufacture. I’d had to give her access to all my social media accounts so she could rebrand them.

It left me powerless as she stripped away one thing after another that made me unique. That made me, me. As Alice’s personal shopper arrived with bags of dresses to try on, each one too sexy, or bold, or edgy . . . anxiety needled up my spine.

If I wasn’t careful, I’d become a Stepford wife. My personality would be hollowed out to make room for their brand, and I’d exist as a shadow of a real woman.

No.

I was determined to play this game until I found a way to beat it.

It wasn’t all that warm outside for late May and there was a breeze, but I was already sweating as I walked up to the restaurant and put a clammy hand on the door handle. The air conditioning slammed into me as I stepped inside and caused a shiver.

Or perhaps it was the man waiting in the foyer for me.

Royce had his back to the door, but he sensed my arrival. He turned, and his intense gaze swept down over my frame, taking in the new, repackaged me. My hair was now back to my natural shade, the color of dark chocolate, and had been curled into soft waves. My eyebrows had been waxed into perfect arches.