Page 56 of Wicked Heiress

I balled my hands into fists at my sides, teeth gritted as the rage bubbled up inside me.

I broke his rules.

Fuck.

He was going to kill me or, worse, torture me. Could he use Rhys to do that? I didn’t know the real Rhys Vanderbilt. After we had sex, he became a completely different person.

He used me.

Manipulated me.

Within seconds of Cole walking in on us, Rhys transformed into an asshole, making it clear I was nothing more than sex to him.

“Has anyone spoken to my grandfather?”

Willow nodded. “Mark received a call from him earlier. We’re hosting a party in his honor tomorrow.”

So, in other words, I had to wait for the other shoe to drop. With my grandfather, no sin ever went unpunished.

Chapter Thirty-One

GRACE

My grandfather forced the Marshalls to host a party in his honor, but no one knew why. All night, I couldn’t sleep thinking about seeing Fitzy again. As I sat in front of the vanity, my stomach churned. I couldn’t keep down anything I ate all day.

Rhys would be here.

So would The Founders.

And The Devil’s Knights.

Willow turned on the curling iron, humming a tune under her breath. A song I didn’t recognize. From what I could remember of my mother, she was a lot like Willow—sophisticated and refined, from a wealthy family that expected her to marry well.

Like the Marshalls, my parents married for love. At least, I thought they did. If you asked my grandfather, he would say my father was our family’s undoing. He was glad to be rid of him.

The circumstances surrounding the day my mother died remained a mystery to me. I could recall bits and pieces, fragments that didn’t make much sense.

My grandfather didn’t even let me attend her funeral. He told me she was cremated, but I knew that was a lie. The Adams’ plots took up half of the cemetery. One whole section was dedicated to my relatives. So I knew my mother was buried there.

Didn’t matter, anyway.

Dead was dead.

She was gone.

After Willow curled my hair and dabbed makeup on my skin, I changed into a pretty red dress. It was floor-length, strapless, and fit me perfectly.

“Gorgeous.” She wiggled her fingers, and I grabbed her hand. “Come, our guests are waiting.”

“I thought I was free from my grandfather,” I muttered, deflated.

“I wish I could say that someday you will be. But look at us.” She waved her hand to where the second floor overlooked the foyer as men and women in expensive clothes entered the house. “We must follow The Founders’ rules, same as you.”

“Couldn’t some of you rebel against The Founders Society?”

She shook her head. “It’s not that simple. Our families have maintained wealth and power because of our connections. To break free from The Founders would be worse than exile. We could lose everything.”

I was glad I had been spared this for the past ten years. Thanks to my adoptive father, I had a new name—a new identity. On paper, I was no longer an Adams.

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