Everything else faded away until it was just us. The anger, the shame, the lies we’d had to tell each other were obliterated in the heat of this kiss. Our lips only broke long enough for us both to yank at my underwear and get it out of our way, the threads ripping.
It felt like I was going to die if we didn’t connect in every way possible, and I sighed with relief as he pushed inside my body. He was trembling, or I was shaking badly enough for both of us, and I wrapped my arms around his shoulders, holding on so nothing could ever take him away now that I had him completely.
If someone had said to me a year ago Royce Hale would be the love of my life, I would have told them to go to hell. But it was true. We were each other’s first and only loves.
That morning, he told me he loved me with not only his words, but with his beautiful body. He held my face in his hands as he claimed me over and over, stealing my breath and making my legs go boneless.
And when the pleasure became too much, I gave a soft cry, and he chased me over the edge, because wherever I went, he wanted to follow.
Royce and I continued to sleep in separate bedrooms, to keep up the lie Macalister had divided us. It was a Tuesday morning, so I wasn’t with him when the story broke that the SEC had opened an investigation into Ascension. I sat cross-legged on my bed in my room, the mythology book in my lap ignored, my eyes glued to the television as I watched the stock ticker scroll.
Every time HALE rolled past, it was down another half point.
I could feel the rumbling dissent of the HBHC shareholders like an approaching storm and pictured the churning chaos their headquarters must be right now. The Hale men would be in conference rooms with the heads of each department, mapping out a strategy to calm fears.
When the markets closed, HBHC stock was the lowest it had been in five years, and the commentators used words like disaster and catastrophe. It pivoted immediately to an interview with the chairman and CEO of Hale Banking and Holding.
He must have taken the helicopter to the city and done damage control at the New York branch of his bank, before going to the studio. I blinked as Macalister appeared on screen. He looked calm and collected as he sat in a red chair opposite the female broadcaster and answered her questions, even as she needled him. He was cold, indifferent, and untouchable. Maybe it would inspire confidence in the shareholders, but it might also spark irritation. With his enormous ego, he came off flippant.
Which was good for Royce.
When the interview concluded, I expected Royce to text me. We hadn’t spoken all day. I didn’t want to bother him, and he was clearly busy, but when my phone rang, I nearly dropped it. This wasn’t the Hale I was expecting. He’d only been off the air for five minutes, and now he was calling me?
“Hello?”
Macalister didn’t give me a greeting, he just barked out his order. “Tomorrow, you’ll accompany me to the office.”
In the background, side conversations went in and out around him. He was on the move, and I pictured him striding toward the studio exit and the car likely waiting for him. Would he have more interviews to give, or head back to the helipad?
“Why is that?” I asked, although it was rhetorical. I knew exactly why he wanted me to go with him. It was to strip Royce of my support and rub salt in the wound after he lost the vote. I faked innocence. “Is something happening tomorrow?”
“Royce called for an emergency meeting of the board.” Wind whipped through the phone, then died away as a car door slammed shut. “I’m rather surprised. I’d heard he was having difficulty finding time to speak with the directors. Their schedules have been quite full.”
Once Royce started his campaign, Macalister had done everything in his power to hinder it. It was another game for him to play, and one he enjoyed immensely.
I said nothing, not wanting to give my position away or make a mistake.
His tone was harsh and impatient. “Are you there?”
“Yes,” I answered. “I’ll go with you tomorrow.”
“Excellent.” He paused, as if he were reluctant to say anything else, but it felt calculated. “He doesn’t have the votes, Marist. I know he thinks he does, but anyone who promised him their vote was doing what he does best—lying.”
I bit my tongue from telling him we’d find out who was lying tomorrow.
“He’s walking into a slaughter,” Macalister added. Was he nervous? Overcompensating with bravado? “You’ll wait for me in my office until it’s done, and then we can discuss arrangements on what happens next.”