Chapter 18 Mara
EIGHTEEN
MARA
I pace the OCK house living room barefoot, toes sinking into the thick carpet as I wait for her to arrive. The boys are all in the office studying, or probably just watching me from the large camera in the corner of the room.
They don’t trust anyone my dad is about to send in here.
And I don’t blame them. But it would be nice if their living room didn’t look like a villain’s lair.
I stick my tongue out at the camera in the hope that one of them is watching, and then look at the full-length mirror.
I primp, smoothing every hair into place, and adjusting the neckline of my sweater until it looks effortlessly casual.
In the month I was locked inside my father’s house, I was properly diagnosed with bipolar disorder.
I tried so hard to be evasive in the psychiatrist’s questioning, to feed her the answers she wanted to hear.
It didn’t matter. The real betrayal came when she told me medication wasn’t strictly necessary, just therapy, unless my symptoms became unmanageable.
But my father decided a nice, heavy dose of antipsychotics would be the best course of action anyway.
The issue wasn’t the diagnosis itself. Mental health is real; I’m not ashamed of it.
The issue was the entire world watching it happen in real time. Watching my father’s press secretary spin it into “a courageous journey toward stability.”
They never wanted to fix what was broken in me.
They wanted to sand down my edges until I was no longer dangerous to their narrative. They didn’t want me healed, they wanted me complacent.
Stability isn’t health, it’s currency. Permission to exist outside the gilded cage. The quicker I nailed the performance, the more they eased up. And once I figured out the game they were playing, I learned the rules better than them.
But before I could flip the board myself, the guys stole me away and did it for me.
That doesn’t mean the game is over. It just means the board is bigger now.
A knock echoes through the house, followed by the low murmur of one of the perimeter guys letting someone in.
“Miss Black?”
I smooth my features into a soft, practiced smile as a woman steps into the living room in a bland, professional uniform, hair pulled back so tight I wonder if she gets migraines as a hobby. On the surface, I can’t tell if she’s Syndicate-coded or straight White House.
My dad is just a couple days away from being inaugurated as President of the United States, and I have to attend. Hence the reason for this visit.
“I’m Kacie. Your new White House Security Liaison.”
Liaison.
Not aide or assistant.
Guess Dad upgraded from fancy babysitters to full-on handlers.
She thrusts a slim packet at me, bound in sleek black cardstock. “Updated protocols, post-attack adjustments. Your father asked that you review them immediately.
I take it, flipping through without a word.
Visibility requirements.
Reassurance optics.
Standardized escort details.
It’s all dressed up in corporate-speak, but I smell the politics a mile away. This isn’t about my well-being, it’s damage control for the family empire. Hide me away, and it screams scandal.
But trot me out, calm and collected? That’s the narrative win.
President’s Daughter Unbroken; Everything is Under Control
My body isn’t mine, it’s a PR tool. How empowering.
Being seen isn’t about safety, it’s about control. And isn’t that just the cherry on top of this dysfunctional sundae?
Kacie hovers, eyes scanning for any sign of rebellion. I don’t give her the satisfaction. “This is... comprehensive,” I murmur, injecting a touch of wide-eyed concern.
Her stance softens. “Routine reinforces stability.”
I glance up, playing the cooperative card. “Who handles approvals for outings now? Still my parents?”
“Primary sign-off from the security lead, in consultation with your family.”
“And escorts?” I press gently.
“Rotations are standardized—coordination with approved oversight.”
“Like Omega Chi Kappa?” I slip it in casually, as if it’s no big deal.
She nods without hesitation. “Yes. Currently all of your escorts listed are active Omega Chi Kappa members. I have a Dredyn Steele, Jasper Thorn, Talon Reed, Beck—”
“That’s perfect. Thank you.” I cut her off with a grateful smile before she can list every brother on the roster.
When she finally leaves, I dive back into the packet with fresh eyes. OCK is not optional, but mandatory, which means someone upstairs pulled rank on my parents.
One of the boys must know their father is a Syndicate leader and pulled strings. But why now? Why not sooner, when I was still locked in that penthouse, drowning in forced “treatment”?
I just need to find the OCK officer with daddy issues. Should be easy to snuff out.
But why not just tell me last night?
Why are we keeping secrets, boys?
If Mom and Dad aren’t calling the shots anymore, then the game is bigger than I thought—Syndicate-level bigger. And bigger games have more pieces, more blind spots, more cracks to slip through.
The office door creaks open down the hall and the three boys shuffle into the room with me.
“So? How’d it go with the White House robot?” Talon asks.
“Normal bullshit,” I say, tossing the packet onto the coffee table.
Dredyn doesn’t smile. He pushes off the doorframe and stalks closer. “Everything … handled okay? No weird pushback on the escort list?”
I narrow my eyes at him, suspicion prickling. He’s fishing, but not smoothly.
“No pushback. In fact, OCK is listed as mandatory.”
Talon straightens a fraction. Jasper’s gaze darts to Dredyn.
Dredyn rubs the back of his neck. “Yeah, well... that’s exactly what we wanted. Right?”
Right.
Except his jaw is tight, and he’s not meeting my eyes.
I tilt my head, voice deceptively light. “Funny how that happened so suddenly. Almost like someone with real pull made a call.”
The room stills. Talon clears his throat and Jasper watches Dredyn like he’s waiting for him to crack.
Dredyn finally looks at me, something stormy flashing behind his eyes—guilt, maybe, or resentment. “Hellcat...”
He stops himself, but it’s too late.
We have our target.