“Medusa,” he said simply. “It’s beautiful.”
A sliver of relief worked its way through my system. “You like it?”
“Yeah, I do. When did you get it?”
“This morning.”
It hadn’t taken long for the artist to do the design. Arturo had sketched it out last night and texted me the sample, and this morning he’d inked Medusa painfully into the skin just below the band of my bra. It was one of the only places on my body that I’d see and likely no one else. Well, except for my future husband.
Who stared at the small, single-colored tattoo like it was a work of art.
And it was. She had a classically beautiful face, surrounded by locks of coiling snakes. He’d captured her as young and confident—more of a sexy temptress than an evil monster.
Royce’s fingers continued to outline the edges, carefully avoiding my irritated skin, and his touch sent goosebumps rippling along my arms. “Did it hurt?”
“Yeah,” I said. Shame colored my voice. “And I deserved it.”
He hesitated, his fingers stopping in their tracks. “What?”
“I did something awful.” I stepped away and struggled to push my arms back into the straps of my dress. “Your father controls everything, and I couldn’t take it anymore. I don’t recognize that girl in the mirror. Not the way I look, or the clothes I wear, or what I post to stupid fucking Instagram. I know this sounds insane, but I feel like I’m . . . disappearing.”
My voice broke as the emotions swelled in me, and the worry in his expression skyrocketed, but I had to keep going.
“I needed this tattoo. Something he couldn’t take away from me.”
Royce’s arms circled around me. “Marist, it’s okay. Believe me when I say I fucking understand, and—”
But he wouldn’t, not when I told him everything. “To get this done without him knowing about it, I needed my car. You remember when you told me he doesn’t just give people what they want?”
His arms around me hardened into stone. “What’d you do?”
“He wanted to play another game.” My pulse quickened. “It was really fucked up.”
“What happened?” When I didn’t say anything, his mind must have gone to the worst possible scenario because all the color drained from his face and horror filled his voice. “Did you fuck him?”
“No! God, no.” I swallowed a breath. “But . . .”
I couldn’t get my words out, and it was clearly killing him. “Jesus, just say it.”
“He gave me a vibrator.”
Royce’s face contorted, not understanding. “Uh, okay.” I could read his thoughts through his expression. He didn’t like it, but it also didn’t seem that bad. “I don’t—”
“He has control over it.”
His arms went slack, releasing me, and his demeanor went cold. “I’m not following. You’re saying he used it on you?”
“Yes. Wait—no. Not like you’re thinking.” I pressed my lips into a flat line. “He wasn’t in the room. He can control it with his phone.”
The distance grew between us, and not just physically, and I didn’t like that he was slipping away.
“It was twice,” I said, “and that’s it. I was stupid, and didn’t realize how far he’d push, but I promise you it’s over now. I’m not going to play his game again. I’m so sorry I did.” I stepped forward, closing the space between us. “I’m sorry I did that to us.”
A wide range of emotions played out on his face. Anger. Distrust. Sadness.
And finally, resignation. “Why are you telling me this?”
“He wants to tear us apart.” I took a deep breath. “Please don’t let him.” Maybe if I laid myself bare, he’d open up to me. “I don’t want to keep secrets. I screwed up, but I’m still yours, Royce.”
I placed my left hand on his jaw, and he covered it with his own, his thumb brushing over the engagement ring sparkling there. The symbol of my commitment to him, even when I had nothing to show for his.
“Are we okay?” I asked hopefully.
He didn’t use words to answer me, instead he leaned in. His kiss was restrained, but I accepted it greedily. It was certainly a better reaction than I’d hoped to receive. When the kiss ended, he drew back, and his gaze shifted away from me.
Darkness lurked in his eyes.
It was like I didn’t exist. He was too busy contemplating his next move.
My heart sank. He wasn’t going to tell me anything. No matter what I did or how honest I was, he still didn’t trust me.
Was I foolish to have expected anything else from him?
I picked up my half-eaten lunch and tossed it into his garbage can with a bit too much force. “I’ll let you get back to work.”
“Marist,” he called when I was halfway out the door. His voice was heavy with meaning. “Thank you.”
I didn’t know if he meant for lunch or for admitting what I’d done. So, I nodded and pushed my way out through his office, my new tattoo throbbing the whole way.
Later that afternoon, Alice forwarded me an email from Vanity Fair, announcing they planned to do an article about me, like I was somehow special and interesting now because of the family I was marrying into. They were requesting an interview with Royce as well, and when I pulled up his calendar, the meeting with Frank Davos caught my eye.
Royce had said he wanted a second set of eyes on it, so the least I could do was confirm I’d put the time and date in correctly. I scrolled through my inbox until I found the email and double-checked. Everything was right.
I’d been too focused on the scheduling last time to notice the email was part of a longer conversation. The back and forth replies spanned several weeks. Curious, I scrolled to the beginning and began to read.
The original email had been a check-in on Royce’s portfolio, but the conversation meandered through other topics. Frank considering selling his Red Sox season tickets. Royce’s frustration with an iOS update that made his devices temporarily stop syncing. It was mostly friendly things with some light business sprinkled in.
But as I read on, excitement ignited in my chest.
Royce had been gobbling up stock in one specific company, and Frank told him they’d reached the threshold. Any more would put him at a five-percent stake in ownership, and he’d be required to declare his intentions to the Securities and Exchange Commission. Meaning he’d have to tell the government whether he intended to buy the company, or simply maintain a controlling interest.
Royce referred to the company in one of the most recent emails as CRNE, but I wasn’t familiar with whatever business that was an acronym for. Google wasn’t any help either. All the results were either the Canadian nurses’ exam or a privately-owned sanitation company in Chicago that didn’t trade.
I sat back in my chair and frowned. None of it made sense.
A notification popped up in the corner of my screen telling me that the final bell had rung on the markets, and HALE had closed at the price of $102.82. Down another sixty-two cents from yesterday. My gaze flicked to Royce’s office. The one hundred thousand shares he’d sold me for had lost $62,000 in value since yesterday.