Page 9 of Owned By Royal

She flinches. Not dramatically. Just enough for me to realize I’d struck somewhere painful.

“I loved that your father was successful, Sierra but I truly loved him,” she says quietly. “Don’t ever reduce what we had to money.”

Before I can apologize, she turns and walks away, her shoulders noticeably straighter. I also don’t miss the way she discreetly wipes beneath one eye as she disappears around the corner. I close my eyes briefly, frustration crashing over me from every direction at once.

My mother is hurt. I’m no closer to proving what happened to my father. Royal kissed me. Marco might be a murderer. Nothing about tonight has gone the way I’d planned. I open my eyes to look sideways, and my gaze finds his.

Royal.

He is leaning against the opposite wall with his hands tucked into his trouser pockets, watching me with an expression that’s equal parts curiosity and concern. He must have heard everything. Embarrassment flickers through me.

But it lasts only a heartbeat before my awareness shifts to something infinitely more dangerous. Even standing several feet away, he somehow fills the entire hallway. And despite everything weighing on my mind, and the suspicions consuming me, my pulse betrays me the instant our eyes meet.

For several long moments, neither of us speaks.

The attraction between us settles into the silence. It’s heavy and undeniable, making it dangerously easy to forget every reason I should stay as far away from him as possible. That frightens me more than anything else.

Without trusting myself to say another word, I turn and walk away from him for the second time, refusing to look back even though every instinct urges me to.

Chapter Three

Royal

If there is one thing my father enjoys more than accumulating wealth, it’s making sure everyone knows exactly how much of it he has. Tonight’s charity gala isn’t really about raising money for children’s hospitals, despite the banners and speeches suggesting otherwise.

It’s about optics. It always is with Marco Madera. Another opportunity to remind the elites that the Madera family remains untouchable. As I straighten the cuffs of my tuxedo in one of the hotel’s private suites before heading downstairs, I already know why Dad insisted Riccardo and I attend.

He isn’t interested in having his sons beside him because he values family. He wants us there because we’re part of the image. The ballroom is overflowing by the time I arrive. Crystal chandeliers cast warm light across polished floors while a jazz ensemble plays softly from the stage.

Waiters weave effortlessly through clusters of impeccably dressed guests carrying silver trays of champagne. And photographers linger near the entrance, waiting for the perfect shot that will undoubtedly find its way onto society pages tomorrow morning.

Riccardo is already speaking with several executives when he catches my eye and motions me over. Standing beside him are my father, Yvonne, and Sierra. She looks breathtaking.

The deep teal silk dress she wears catches the light every time she moves, making her eyes appear even more vivid than I remembered. Her hair is perfectly arranged in curls over her shoulders. And despite the polite smile she offers everyone around her, I recognize the tension hiding beneath it.

She’s become very good at pretending over the past few days. Ever since our kiss in Father’s study, she’s managed to avoid being alone with me. At first, I respected the distance because she’s made her feelings clear.

Then the distance became a challenge. Now it simply frustrates me because the more I try to leave her alone, the more often I find myself searching every room for her.

“There he is,” my father announces. “Now we’re complete.”

The word almost makes me laugh. Marco places an arm around Yvonne while photographers begin gathering us together.

“Closer,” one of them calls.

Riccardo immediately moves beside our father, perfectly playing his role as the devoted eldest son. I take my place on Yvonne’s opposite side, which unfortunately, or perhaps fortunately, puts Sierra directly beside me.

“Smile,” the photographer says.

Flash. Another camera clicks.

My arm settles lightly around Sierra’s waist for the photograph. The contact is brief, innocent for anyone watching, yet my attention immediately shifts to the way her breathing changes.

Without moving my smile, I murmur, “You might want to look happier.”

She doesn’t even glance at me. “I am.”

“No, you look like you’re plotting murder.”