Obsessed Heir (Billionaire Heirs #4)

Chapter 32

Chapter Thirty-Two

Barron

“ Y ou’re supposed to stroll,” Holly says, coming up behind us in the main hallway. She’s in full PR mode. “We want you moving at a leisurely pace so everyone disembarking can see you.”

Holly gives instructions with the self-assured air of a professional. I can’t help feeling somewhat impressed by how she’s pulled this all together despite the last-minute changes.

“Why are we walking by when they’re leaving the ship?” Abigail whispers, slowing her pace as we approach the area where crowds will be passing by.

“We’re introducing people to our Maiden and the Billionaire,” she says, with all the cheer of someone who completed an important project. “This is when most of the passengers will be coming through.”

“O-kay,” Abigail replies, her voice wavering. She’s clearly not used to being put on display.

“You look fantastic, by the way,” Holly gushes, giving Abigail a once-over like a proud mama assessing her daughter is picture-perfect before a big pageant.

Abigail turns to Holly, the polite smile not quite reaching her eyes. “Thank you.” She was raised with manners. Yes, my very Southern mother would have drilled manners into her at every moment.

“You did a great job coordinating this,” I admit to Holly. “Especially when everything needed to be done on the fly.”

“You sound surprised,” Holly says with annoyance.

“Never,” I assure her, knowing better than to even question her competence.

“I have a couple more outfits in the works for Abigail,” Holly says, her voice full of promise. “The one for tomorrow night is taking longer than expected.”

Despite my assurance, I have to ask, “What do you mean they’re in the works?”

“I wanted Abigail in an original piece for yesterday’s photo shoot,” Holly explains. “Camille from the lingerie boutique suggested I try to find a seamstress among the ship’s laundry staff.” She blows out a breath. “I’m lucky we have someone who can make alterations so fast. She’s doing the work by hand.”

Abigail runs her fingertips along the neckline of her dress. “Well, she did a fabulous job.”

“It would go much faster if we had a sewing machine on board.” She sighs. “I’ll see if I can buy one in town. Then I’ll have to figure out where to set it up.”

“You’re going to pay through the nose for it,” I point out. With such limited resources in these small towns, they would have to travel down to Canada or the lower forty-eight for the supplies they need.

Holly tilts her head to one side. “Technically, you’r e going to pay through the nose.” She gives me her self-satisfied grin. “But you can afford it.”

I turn away, annoyed by her response. “Another woman who just wants me for my money,” I mutter.

“Where are we heading exactly?” Abigail asks, trying to change the subject.

“We’re to sit at The Martini Bar and be beautiful,” I explain, having gone through this a few days ago. “This is all for people to see you and become curious.”

She raises her eyebrows in question.

“They’ll be curious about the glamorous woman known as the Maiden,” Holly adds. “You smile pretty and make them feel welcome.”

“There isn’t a product on earth that can’t be marketed by featuring a beautiful woman’s face alongside it,” I clarify.

She looks up at me through her lashes with an amused glint. “Mm-hmm.”

I might be wrong, but she may genuinely believe I’m exaggerating. The possibility that her naiveté runs that deep brings a grin to my face. She has so much to learn, including the dynamics of sex appeal in advertising and branding.

“Let’s go,” Holly prompts, raising her chin decisively to indicate which way we should head.

We don’t take more than a few steps before I realize how many people are actively stopping to stare at Abigail as we pass. I’ve been so focused on her that I didn’t immediately register the enraptured gazes following her every movement. A possessive flare ignites in my gut. I don’t like so many roving eyes watching her go by. No. I don’t like it at all.

The Martini Bar seating area is exactly how Holly had arranged it when we departed Seattle—a tall table, roped off from the crowd. As we arrive, Holly gives a signal to the manager, and he swiftly produces two stools for Abigail and me to take our seats, putting us officially on display.

“So, now we sit here and let people gawk at us, as if we’re at the zoo,” I remark dryly.

My statement earns me a signature eye-roll from Holly along with the patented “fuck you” smile she reserves just for me.

“How about we get you some drinks?” Holly smoothly changes the subject before turning her full attention to Abigail. “What would you like from the bar?”

Abigail subtly shakes her head, one shoulder hitching up in an endearingly awkward gesture. “I’m not old enough to drink alcohol.”

The reminder hits home. She’s twenty years old, not of legal drinking age by either Texas or Alaska state law. Not too young to be having a child, my child. My head swims as the heavy reality hits me square in the chest. The image of her belly rounded with my baby makes me want to haul her back to bed.

“That’s even better!” Holly doesn’t miss a beat, ever the consummate professional. “How about a virgin drink? Try a daiquiri, with passion fruit.”

“Yes, that sounds nice,” Abigail replies politely.

“Can you get her something to eat?” I cut in. “With everything happening this morning, she barely had a few bites of toast.”

“I’m okay, really,” Abigail insists.

I shake my head firmly. Not to mention the fact her meager breakfast isn’t nearly enough to sustain a developing baby. If we’re taking my larger size into account, she’ll need extra portions to keep up her strength, especially at night.

“We’re going to be here awhile,” I state, leaving no room for argument. I’ll make sure she’s properly taken care of, whether she likes it or not.

“I’ll have the waiter bring some fruit, cheese, and crackers,” Holly announces crisply, striding off with her usual brisk, determined air.

No sooner does she leave than our first spectator approaches—Bronwyn, lips pressed into a tight, disapproving line as she sizes up the supposed competition. The disdainful look on her face makes it clear she views Abigail as nothing more than a nuisance.

Truthfully, there’s absolutely no competition, but I doubt she’ll realize it.

“Well hello,” Bronwyn greets us in an overtly saccharine tone.

Abigail’s eyes go wide, her pulse kicking up at her throat as she squirms under the other woman’s scrutiny.

“Hi, Miss O’Neal,” she manages, a little starstruck despite herself.

Meanwhile, Bronwyn’s icy glare could freeze lava. “Fancy meeting you here,” she bites out with thinly veiled hostility.

Abigail leans back in her seat.

“Holly asked me to help with another project,” she explains, doing her best to maintain her composure.

“Did she?” Bronwyn folds her arms across her chest.

“She asked both of us.” Abigail sets her forearm on the table, leaning toward me.

Bronwyn catches the subtle shift. Her fingers tighten where they’re curved around her arm as her gaze finds me. “So, this is where you ran off to last night when you left me.”

The implication in her statement is clear and calculated to provoke a reaction. I have to fight the urge to check on Abigail because doing so will show a weak spot. A chink in my armor I can’t afford to make public, not with Bronwyn around.

Keeping my expression impassive, I deflect. “Holly has a new PR campaign for the Maiden, and Abigail is perfect for the role.”

“Hmm.” Bronwyn’s smile is overly sweet, contrasting with the unconcealed malice in her gaze. “Steven did mention you chose an amateur for this project.”

The disdain in the word rubs me the wrong way, but I bite my tongue.

“I couldn’t believe you’d pick someone off the ship’s deck and toss them into the deep end without expecting them to drown.”

The little prick must have told Bronwyn about Abigail’s fear of water, trying to stir up trouble. While Abigail has managed well on the cruise so far, Bronwyn couldn’t know that detail any other way.

Before I can respond, Abigail speaks up. “Barron and I have known each other for years,” Abigail informs her. “He helped me out of a difficult situation, so I’m happy to help him in return.”

“Well, that’s interesting.” Bronwyn’s smile turns sly, sensing an edge she can potentially exploit.

While she won’t find any real dirt, Abigail has inadvertently provided more personal information than I would have offered to anyone, Bronwyn included.

Someone in her position could try digging up anything to give herself an advantage over me—a tactic straight from my own playbook. Though I could easily see her making something up if it’ll benefit her.

“What’s interesting?” Holly asks, returning with our drinks. She offers a pleasant smile, ever attuned to the subtleties of power dynamics.

“It seems Abigail and Barron have history,” Bronwyn says lightly, tapping her fingers against her arm. “I’m sure it’s a fascinating story once you get all the details.” Her eyes glitter with the prospect of gaining some leverage.

Thankfully, Abigail doesn’t rise to the obvious baiting. She must realize on some level that sharing anything else would be unwise.

“Nowadays, there’s a story about every Joe Schmo you can think of,” Holly states, her voice tinged with indifference.

“Or in our case,” I interrupt, “every Sally Jo.” I can’t resist adding, using Bronwyn’s birth name to let her know I’m well aware of the skeletons rattling around in her closet.

The dig strikes home. Bronwyn loses her smile. She drops her arms and glares at me with undisguised contempt. Nothing less than I’d expect when putting her in her well-earned place.

“I don’t know what lies you’ve heard—” she begins with an air of haughty defiance, gaze flicking between Holly and me, trying to regain her footing.

“I haven’t heard anything,” I reply coolly.

“It made for some rather fascinating reading though,” Holly chimes in, chin propped in one hand as she leans against the table.

“Fascinating,” I agree. “Pictures and all.”

My confirmation that we have full knowledge of Bronwyn’s tawdry past is enough to shut her down. She presses her lips together, visibly flustered. For my part, I’m thoroughly enjoying her discomfort.

“I’m running late for my shore excursion,” she announces, waving one hand dismissively as she turns and storms away from our table.

Bronwyn departs in a huff.

“Wow.” Abigail’s eyes are still wide. “I thought mean girls were only in high school and movies.”

“No.” Holly shakes her head. “Unfortunately, they grow bitchier as they get older.”

“Great. Something to look forward to,” Abigail deadpans, removing the paper covering from her daiquiri straw with a trembling hand.

Seeing her go through that solely because of her connection to me stirs up an unexpected protective pang. Knowing she went to the same private school I attended, together with her comment about being the help, I can only imagine the shit she had to endure.

“It’s the same as being back home,” I explain. “Be careful not to share personal information they might use against you.”

Holly nods. “Women like her end up on the wrong side of social media, and you don’t want to give them anything to trade. She’ll twist it into a weapon so she can deflect attention from herself.”

“Okay.” Abigail exhales slowly, as she takes a fortifying sip of her drink.

Holly turns to her with an approving smile. “For now, I’ll leave you to sit here and look ethereal for our audience.”

Abigail responds with a skeptical arch of her eyebrows. I understand the doubt, but Holly’s assessment is spot-on, as usual. With the light makeup, glowing skin, and those lush curls cascading down her back, Abigail is the exact image Holly wants to present. Beautiful. Innocent. Ethereal.

I can’t wait to get her alone and change everything about that.