The Deception (Filthy Rich Americans 3)

From across the room, a soft knock rang out on the suite door.

“We’re out of time,” Macalister said quickly. “I agree to your initial terms. Do we have a deal?”

I sucked in a breath and swallowed it. “Yes.”

We didn’t shake hands. He simply stood across the room and gave half of a nod, confirming the deal was closed. He didn’t seem thrilled, but the pleased look that crossed his face made my stomach bottom out. I was tired and vulnerable, and in my weakened state, I’d made a mistake.

I should have bargained for more.

The door swung open, but it wasn’t medical staff that came in—it was my parents. With all that had changed between us, it was shocking how it all was inconsequential now. My heart ached at the sight of them, and I bit down on my bottom lip to stop its trembling.

“Oh, Marist,” my mom gasped as she flew toward me, her arms outstretched. Royce stepped back to make space, and I welcomed her hug greedily. She was soft, and warm, and my mom. As hard as it was to accept how fixated she was on money and status, I knew deep down she loved me more. My father, my sister, and I were more important than anything else.

My father stood beside her, his hand on her shoulder and concern on his face while she continued to squeeze me tightly.

“What happened?” She smoothed a hand over the back of my head in comforting, repeating strokes.

It was unfair that the first time I’d have to tell the lie, it would be to the people I most didn’t want to.

“Uh . . .” I started.

And then suddenly Royce was there, doing what he’d been spent his lifetime perfecting . . .

He lied.

He explained how one of the staff members had turned me on to a homemade tea with leaves grown in the herb garden. Only last night, I’d misidentified the plant—easy to do, he added. They grew right beside each other. The lie rolled out of him with such ease, I nearly believed him.

My parents bought it completely.

“How awful. Thank God you’re all right.” My mother had grabbed my hand and refused to let go. “I’m sorry we weren’t here sooner. I still had my phone on silent from the gala, and your father’s was charging downstairs.” She used her other hand to latch onto Royce’s arm. “Thank you for sending your brother to get us.”

From my bed, I peered up at him. “You sent Vance to my parents’ house?”

To anyone else, his smile would seem warm, but I saw through to the unease masked beneath. “No one could get hold of them, and . . . I thought they should be here.”

It was a slug to my heart. He’d been worried I was going to die before my parents even knew I’d gone to the hospital.

Tears stung my eyes, but I blinked them away before whispering, “Thank you.”

And I’d thank Vance the first chance I got.

“From now on,” my father said, “you only drink tea that comes from the store.”

“Agreed,” said the man lingering by the window.

At Macalister’s deep voice, my mother froze. He’d been off to the side, and she’d been distracted by the sight of me and Royce when she’d come into the room, so she’d failed to notice him. Like an outsider, he was the only one not gathered at my bedside.

Panic swamped her face as she looked down and realized what she was wearing. After Vance had woken them up, my parents had obviously thrown on whatever clothes were fastest and then raced to Boston. For my mother, it had been yoga pants and an Etonsons University sweatshirt. No makeup. Her hair was down and flattened from a half-night’s sleep.

She’d never been so unkempt in front of my father’s boss and the king of Cape Hill before, and he held even more power over us now.

“Macalister.” She squeezed out a strained smile as she tucked her hair behind an ear. “I didn’t see you there.” Her gaze swept across the room, searching for who else she may have missed. “Is Alice here too?”

“No.”

When he didn’t elaborate, she exchanged a quick, puzzled look with my father. “Oh.” She struggled visibly with how to proceed. “Have you been here long?”

She winced at her question, probably realizing the answer was obvious. He wore the same tuxedo she’d seen him in at the gala last night, so it was clear he hadn’t had time to change.

Something was buried in his voice. Was that . . . pride? Macalister didn’t smile, but it gave me the same uneasy feeling I had when he did. “I was the one who found Marist after she’d collapsed.”

“Oh,” was all my mother could say.

Her gaze flitted back to me in the bed, and I watched her throat bob in a hard swallow. If she was nervous about Macalister seeing her in sweats, she was downright terrified he was seeing me in a shapeless hospital gown. I could only imagine what my face looked like. The only makeup I wore was whatever was left over from yesterday, and probably beneath my eyes instead of the eyelids above them.