Cherished Read online

  Displeasure ripples across his face. “The biggest event of your life will now be your wedding after your birthday.”

  My marriage to Patrick Mason. The thought makes me want to heave, to hurl my eggs Benedict breakfast all over Father’s Persian rug. I’d only met Patrick once. He’s handsome, I’ll give him that. Older than us, he’s also unambitious, a player, and not serious about anything. His father is one of the most brutal and dangerous men to cross, a man my father is willing to sell his daughter to. MacDonald Mason learned who Father really is, and I’m the cost of his silence. Someone forced to endure MacDonald’s son and bear babies who’ll carry on the family tradition Patrick would fail at.

  This time, I lift my chin in an attempt to look down my nose at Father. “I’m not going to be happy about being coerced to marry a man I don’t love and who is unworthy of me.”

  “You think you’re better than Patrick Mason?” He doesn’t sound haughty. Just curious.

  “Very much so, yes.”

  “What if he’s changed, as you have?”

  So, Father acknowledges that I’m different. Is he impressed? Or is this a complication? I’m not the scared little girl who’s afraid of her father’s empire collapsing and taking her with it. I’ll be blatant about how much I think a guy like Patrick’s changed. “Sure. Patrick—who’s never worked for a thing in his life, who grew up watching his father get everything he deems his by force, and who couldn’t stand the idea of monogamy, could be a stand-up guy.” Patrick’s promiscuousness was the only reason I wasn’t married before I could legally drink. He wanted more time to fuck around and used my age as an excuse.

  “Says the girl I caught playing house with a man who sneaks into people’s offices and homes to bully them into doing whatever someone has paid him handsomely for.”

  “Kase is different.”

  A gotcha glint enters his eyes. “Please. Enlighten me.”

  I could run like a mouse caught in the cheese drawer, or I could keep this conversation going. I have nothing to hide. I’ll play Father’s game. My odds of winning are low. Father has more experience at both gaming and deceiving people. Yet, I recognize the danger of spilling Kase’s secrets. He shared his feelings and emotions with me. No one else. I can’t have Father deciding Kase might be an obstacle for me and do something drastic. A girl without hope is more compliant.

  “Maybe I’m just projecting. I didn’t want to be born into this life, Father. Yes, on the outside, so many people are envious of it. I didn’t go without—unless you count freedom, attention, and parental love and support. I grew up thinking I had the opportunity to be whatever I wanted, only to have it ripped away when I was too young and naive to know better.”

  Father works his jaw. My heart slams against my ribs, pounding until I’m short of breath. I’ve spoken so frankly to him. Has he ever heard me be sarcastic?

  He tilts his head, inspecting me. “Kase Donovan doesn’t want the life he has?”

  “You’d have to ask him. Like I said, I’m probably projecting. What I do know is that I don’t want to live a life intertwined with violence. I don’t want to have to watch my back. I don’t want to give birth to children who’ll wonder why their father is either never around or doesn’t want anything to do with them. We both know how this lifestyle turns out for the family members.”

  My pulse is racing. Father abruptly sits forward. I flinch at his sudden movement.

  “I heard a lot of couched statements in what you said. If you’re so brave, tell a person what you really think, Holland. To be anything less is childish.” His tone is harsh but chiding.

  I almost retract what I said. But that would be too much like a younger Holland. I imagine talking to Monsieur Green. I don’t mince words with him.

  I didn’t. I don’t have business with him anymore. Grief is welled behind a dam that’s dangerously close to breaking. I would love to have my biggest problem of the day being Monsieur Green putting his shoes on my assistant’s desk. “Father, I know you’re smart enough to hear what I’m saying. I didn’t come in here to sling accusations or tell you all the ways I feel like you failed as a father.”

  His cheek tics. Father hasn’t failed at anything in his life—except when it comes to abiding by the law and being a parent. The reminder must upset him.

  I didn’t come here to unearth all the issues of our past. I only want closure for a life I had to abruptly leave. “I want to talk to my friends. That’s all.”

  “That’s not all, Holland.” He folds his hands on top of the desk, oblivious to his keyboard. It’s probably for show. He likely has a million assistants to uncap his pens and transcribe what he dictates. “You were born into this life. As much as I tried to prevent Gloria from getting pregnant, she was determined. Successful where others weren’t.”

  Ouch. An ache ignites deep in my chest. I didn’t have parents who wanted me, and I wouldn’t know what it’s like to be with a partner who does.

  “But here you are,” he continues. “My child. A Gray. You’re not interested in taking over CG Enterprises. You’re not interested in casinos or real estate. You’re like your mother in that way. You want what you want, and you want to use my money to get it.”

  I stuff my irritation down. Father always knows his targets’ weaknesses. “You offered.”

  “You begged.”

  My memories were much different. I signed the contract promising that I’d marry Patrick Mason, and Father had been unusually quiet in that he didn’t lock himself inside his office for the day. I went into the kitchen to cry into a bowl of mint chip ice cream and he followed. So unlike him. Then we’d talked. A night I recorded as our second real conversation. The first night was when I saw him kill someone in this office. Someone hired to take him out. Someone like Kase or his mom or dad. A simple job to that man. A job that ended in death.

  The second talk was the morning after I signed the contract, when Father proposed the business arrangement. He spent the night planning a legitimate out for me while I sobbed into my pillow. When I was a kid, he let me out of the obligation Kase is faced with. Then with the contract marriage, he helped me again.

  Yet here I am. “I was desperate, I won’t deny that. But begging paints a false picture, and you know it.”

  He’s going to refuse to allow me to call my friends. He doesn’t trust me and maybe he’s right not to. Maybe I would tell London and Penni about my marriage contract. It isn’t nearly as scintillating as London’s was. It’s not a way to get me close enough to the perfect man until he can get over himself. But at least Patrick won’t try to kill me like Penni’s late husband. That’d be too much effort for a kid who grew up with it easy, being able to do anything he wanted. His older brother was supposed to take over the empire before he was killed.

  “Holland—”

  “I’m done, Father.” The disapproval in his tone isn’t something I am going to tolerate a second longer than I need to. He gave me a window into a free future, then he slammed it shut before the countdown was done. “I’ll be in my room if anything changes.”

  I walk out, my head held high. Before my time with Kase, I would’ve never talked to Father like that. I’ll never forget the man who rushed into my house at the worst moment, and I’ll be forever grateful, even while I descend into hell.

  CHAPTER 2

  Holland

  There’s a solid knock on my door. Tommy. His knock hasn’t changed over the years. I’m at the mahogany desk in my old bedroom that Father had redecorated to look like the powder room of a very old, very wealthy octogenarian.

  There’s a fireplace, complete with stonework. An arched ceiling, floor-to-ceiling windows I was never comfortable undressing in front of, a thick rug like the one in Father’s office, and furniture so dark I almost wish for another light to brighten the place up.

  If I draped a red scarf at the corner of the bed, it’d look like it was bleeding onto the floor. But I’d have just as much luck finding a feathered boa as a red scarf in this damn place. This room is Father’s style, unchanging for decades, just like him. Not at all mine.

  I push away from the plain notebook I’m sketching in. I can’t help taking pencil to paper to whip out designs, but I cried for forty-eight hours straight when I penciled my first bombshell skirt after I arrived two weeks ago.

  The notebook is filling up with staid suits and A-line skirts I labeled Bodyguard Chic. Absolutely useless other than to give me a few giggles at the tongue-in-cheek fashion.

  Female versions of Tommy and Hanson are my inspiration. Thick necks, thick thighs, and a roomy coat to hide at least one revolver in. The model inspired by clean-cut Tommy has a topknot, and I gave Hanson’s sketched doppelgänger long dark hair with an ’80s tease.

  I open the door as Tommy’s about to knock again. “Yeah?”

  I’ve been a little brat to the two bodyguards who used to give me suckers and gum as a kid. I even caught Hanson tucking a stick of gum back into his suit coat when I told Tommy he should’ve been able to get into the rental without busting the hinges. Isn’t that Henchman 101? I feel bad for that, but not enough to quit pouting and apologize.

  “Your father needs you in the office.” His gaze takes in my appearance and his lips tighten. I tied one of the boring ivory blouses at my hip and ripped one of the skirts so I could fold my legs under me when working on the bed or in the leather recliner in the corner. “You need to change, Holland.”

  He says it like an uncle who doesn’t want to see me get an ass chewing by the principal. I almost close the door to find another option to ease his worry, but I square my shoulders. “Then he can ask what I find comfortable before he buys me an entire damn wardrobe and leaves me with no way to purchase my own essentials.”

  I try t
o step around him, but Tommy’s a wall and Hanson’s fretting behind him. I can only tell because his eyes are darting from me to the office down the long hallway.

  Tommy puts his hand up. “It’s the Masons. They’re in his office.”

  My throat closes off, and I want to flounder like I’m drowning. I suck in a breath through my constricted airway. The Masons. Not just old Mac, but Patrick too.

  In the years since I’d last seen them, I’d convinced myself I could make it so I never saw them again. And they’re here. Patrick would’ve been bad enough, but MacDonald is the brainiac behind the marriage contract. This mess was his idea, and I’m too worn to be utterly compliant today.

  “Well, then I’m really not changing.” I gesture for Tommy to move it or lose it. A healthy dose of fear and what I want to think is respect flickers in his eyes.

  Hanson’s neatly trimmed brows lift as he steps back for us to pass. I like both of them, always have. They treated Gloria with more respect than any of Father’s other employees, and they’ve been good to me. If I genuinely thought Father would take his anger out on them, I would change. Father won’t allow others to think he can’t control his bodyguards. He views me as a direct reflection of himself, not his staff.

  I march to the ornate mahogany office door that matches the desk in my room. All the woodwork in this place matches. No pops of color. No personality. Dreary.

  I knock and stroll in like I have all the time in the world. “You wanted to see me?”

  Father’s jaw hardens, and the muscles in the corners stay at full flex. “Holland.” He takes in my appearance, but I keep all challenge off my face and adopt a neutral expression. Apparently mollified that I at least won’t make a scene, his jaw loosens. “Have a seat.”

  I give a pleasant nod to a scowling MacDonald Mason. His round face is usually beet red, but today it’s redder than the polo shirt he’s wearing with his white slacks. The guy looks like he should be strolling around a Florida retirement community, not marrying off his son to control a man he wants to work with.

  As for Patrick, he’s lounging in his chair, his arm hanging over the side like he’s a petulant teen and not a forty-five-year-old rake. His coppery hair’s flopped over his forehead and the style of his linen, navy-blue shorts and white polo match his dad’s.

  He’s aged since I’ve last seen him. Before, he looked like a man-child with a Peter Pan complex, but today he could blend into the PTA crowd picking up their kids from school. Has he been trying to figure out how to get out of this? Or is he grateful for the contract?

  Patrick lets his gaze drift down my body, a reddish-brown brow ticking up. “Holland. Nice to see you again.”

  Relief hovers at the fringes of my mind. He sounds bored. Is that my opening? Does he hold any sway over his old-fashioned father?

  “Christ, she dresses like a whore.” MacDonald’s words are overflowing with disgust.

  I suppress my gasp at the last second and struggle not to release the sarcastic retort on my tongue. You mean the contract I signed comes with money? Because whores get paid, and so far, I’m getting nothing out of this deal.

  Father’s face flushes a few shades lighter than MacDonald’s shirt. “You won’t speak about my daughter like that.”

  “Or what?” MacDonald boasts, and Patrick sits up as if he’s getting ready to sprint to the door. I might race him.

  “Or we can settle this dispute right now. It won’t matter if my secret gets out if I’m dead, and you can’t insult my only child if you have no pulse. What’s going on between us is business. If you want to make it personal, Mac, go ahead and repeat what you just said.”

  I’ve never heard Father speak in such a chilling tone. Goose bumps spread over my skin. I hope MacDonald knows he’s serious. My father will only be pushed so far, and I don’t want to find out he’s not flexing and is willing to burn his empire to the ground over an insult toward me. But I soak in the thought he might really be concerned about this marriage.

  MacDonald’s laughter surprises me. Patrick sags in his seat, almost running his hands over his face but instead pressing them onto his thighs. He exchanges a relieved look with me, and I catch a slight shake of his head, like he’s asking if I believe what just happened. I lift my shoulder only slightly to answer him.

  Patrick and I might’ve been friends in another life, but I can’t afford to soften toward him. I want to, but he was raised by MacDonald. I might seem harmless, but I was raised by Father. I’ve killed a man. Patrick’s not high profile, but he shares his exploits on social media. I haven’t seen a high regard for anyone but himself.

  “Connor, you’ve still got it,” MacDonald wheezes. “I thought you’d gone soft in your old age.”

  Father doesn’t qualify for retirement. Not that he’ll ever quit working. Gray Towers is going to be his tombstone one day. I doubt I’ll get anything from his estate after the way I rejected his way of life, and I don’t want it. I’d rather have my freedom.

  “Sit, Holland.” Father inclines his head toward the empty chair next to Patrick. I obey like the obedient dog I am. The three of us are arranged in a half-moon in front of Father’s desk. A subtle power move, what Father’s known for.

  I cross my legs, aware the corner of my skirt has hitched up. Patrick eyes my bare skin as I try to hold the edges together. I should’ve listened to Tommy. My skin’s crawling.

  Patrick might not want to marry me, but he fucks anything that’ll spread for him. I don’t care if he’s promiscuous. I don’t want to be one of his partners.

  “We’re moving the wedding up,” Father announces evenly.

  “What?” I don’t temper my volume. It’s a startled shout.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I see Patrick cringe. So, the news wasn’t good for him either.

  “In light of your recent indiscretion, it’s for the best,” MacDonald adds as if that makes it right.

  “I’ve honored the conditions of my contract,” I say rigidly.

  “Fashion week?” he spits out. “Magazines? That’s not keeping a low profile.”

  Oh, crap. He’s not upset about Kase. He figured out what I was trying to do.

  I keep my gaze off Father. MacDonald’s likely figured out who my benefactor is, but I won’t confirm it. I come from a rich family. It shouldn’t be a surprise I had money to play with. I wish I had more. I could’ve progressed faster. I could’ve bought my way into more magazines and fashion shows and elite parties.

  “Is it unreasonable to pursue my passion? The contract’s only requirement is marriage.” I ask as if I don’t know damn well why notoriety is an issue in the Mason world and that my world will be Patrick after we’re married. Guys like MacDonald don’t care for independent women.

  “Yes,” he says hotly. “If your father hadn’t put a stop to it, I would’ve taken a torch to that rinky-dink little warehouse of yours.”

  This time I can’t hold my gasp back. “No.”

  “Yes.” MacDonald sits forward. “You stay under the radar like me. Like my boy here. Your only job is to raise my grandchildren.”

  My stomach turns. I wish I could read Father’s face, but he’s a master at concealing himself. “I’m contracted to marry your son. You want kids? Fine, I want kids.” But not Patrick’s. I don’t want his dick anywhere near me. “But there’s nothing that says I have to be a compliant wife. That we have to conceive the old-fashioned way.” I waggle my finger between me and Patrick. “We can get married, and he can give me his samples and a turkey baster.” Stomach acid swells into my throat. I want no part of this, but it’s by far the better option.

  The color of MacDonald’s face deepens. “We’ll see about that, girl. Three months. The house in The Ridges will be finished, and you can move in as newlyweds.” He rises. “I’ll give you and Patrick time to talk. Connor?”

  Father bristles. He doesn’t like being told what to do, not in his office of all places, but he spears me with a look that orders me to behave. “Five minutes.”

  MacDonald turns as if to argue, but Father’s quelling look makes him shut his mouth. And I’m alone with Patrick.