The Deception (Filthy Rich Americans 3)

The single word from Macalister fell like a frozen sledgehammer. “No.”

Royce paused. “No?”

It was like no one else was in the room. Macalister’s gaze trapped me, and his voice went as black as his suit. “I don’t accept this. You’ll change your vote.”

Tension worked along my back, and nerves fluttered in my stomach. I flashed back to the night I’d beaten him at chess and how his malice-filled stare had stabbed into me. It was exactly the same now. He wasn’t willing to accept losing any better than the last time.

“It’s over,” I said. “Checkmate.”

“No.” The volume of his voice rose right along with him out of his chair. “I do not accept this, Marist. I brought you into my home, into my family, and you will not take away everything I’ve built . . . and give it to him.”

Violence whispered the hairs along the back of my neck and drew me from my seat. And when I stood, so did the rest of the men, although not out of polite courtesy—they felt the same threat I did. There was a pulse thrumming in the room, and it quickened when everyone was on their feet.

Macalister had brought me into his family. He’d taught me how to strategize with chess, and how to ruthlessly win at all costs. Did he not think I’d learn how to lie and deceive like the Hales could?

It wasn’t wise, but I said it anyway. “I told you you’d regret this.”

Macalister went wooden, his muscles taut beneath his suit. Something cracked inside his chest, and the panic of it filled his expression. It was frightening how his eyes darkened to black ice. No longer a god, he became a monster, and the Minotaur burst forth.

The horror of it locked me in place. It was why I couldn’t run when he seized the rolling office chair by its armrests, lifted it high into the air, and then hurled it at the wall with all the force left in his body.

Board members gasped as the chair flew like a missile. I stumbled backward, putting my hands up to cover my mouth and the startled sound I made.

The chair crashed to the floor with a thunderous boom and tumbled noisily into the table of beverages and pastries that had been set out for the meeting. The impact knocked over the stainless-steel coffee server, and its lid came off, dumping a tidal wave of steaming coffee across the carpet.

When Macalister charged at me, everyone felt the danger— most of all my husband.

The fastest way for Royce to get to me was over the long conference table, and I blinked in shock as he took it. He scrambled as a blur across the glossy surface, his dress shoes squeaking against the veneer and his face full of determination. It announced there was nothing in the world that was going to stop him from getting to me.

His feet hit the floor, and a split second later I was spun around in his arms, his body a protective wall between me and his father. I was shaking with adrenaline, but Royce was warm and solid, and I clung to him with relief.

“Marist,” Macalister roared as he struggled against the arms holding him back. Several of the men had stepped up to restrain him, and it looked like no easy task. “I love you,” he cried. Betrayal etched his face. “How can you do this to me?”

When the day was over, which part would the board find the most shocking? That Macalister was out as CEO, that he’d lost control and hurled a chair across the room . . . or how he’d admitted he was in love with his daughter-in-law?

Royce squeezed me tight as he turned his head and lobbed his words over his shoulder toward his father. “If you’re looking for someone to blame, why don’t you try your-fucking-self? You had every opportunity to stop this, and you didn’t, and I’m not just talking about this vote.” His expression was pure contempt. “If you hadn’t tried to take her away from me, we wouldn’t have had to take everything away from you. I warned you this day was coming.”

He had, the night in the hedge maze when he’d offered fifty million dollars to buy me back from his father and Macalister had refused.

“My biggest regret,” Royce continued, “is that it didn’t come sooner.”

Macalister seemed to claw back a shred of control and quit struggling against the hands holding him back. He sneered at the men. “Release me.”

They hesitantly did, but everyone stayed on alert, not trusting his calm demeanor would last. He grabbed the sides of his suit coat and straightened it, regaining some of his composure mere seconds before two men in gray suits poured into the room. The crash of the chair had drawn security, and they surveyed the tense scene quickly.