Chapter 10
THE PARTY I DON’T BELONG TO
ENYA
Ishould have said no.
I really, really should have because this is not my scene.
But who am I kidding? My scene or not, my father ordered me to come, and I did. I wish I had the spine to turn him down, but….
In any case, according to Grandma Lucille, my spine isn’t the problem—it’s my starved heart.
“You want his approval, sweet girl, but you’ll never get it. I wish you’d stop trying so hard because all it does is hurt you.”
I still crave his approval—more now than ever, especially after the mess with Nick Smith, or whatever his name really is. Lowell committed the treason, but if you listened to Maggie and my father, you’d think I was the one on trial.
When they find out I’m pregnant, it’s going to be…something. I don’t know exactly what, but I know it won’t be good.
I place a hand over my belly—a protective reflex—as I step into the ballroom of the Omni Shoreham Hotel.
My mauve dress, all chiffon and silk, floats around me in soft layers.
I wore it to hide my belly, which is absurd—it’s far too soon for that.
I’m only at eight weeks, according to my OBGYN, in the early days.
Still, I’m constantly aware of the baby inside me, and wonder if everyone can see I’m knocked up.
“Ma’am,” a uniformed officer murmurs next to me, and I realize that I’m in his way, standing in the middle of the entrance of the sprawling, opulent room with its glittering chandeliers and beautiful people, feeling enormously out of place.
I step inside and join the throngs of donors and diplomats.
I spot my father almost immediately. He’s holding court.
No scandal is going to make this man shrink.
It’s been just two months since the Lowell debacle, and he’s doing just fine.
After all, he’s Kevin Cahill, a career diplomat who has survived three administrations.
He understands optics, leverage, and loyalty better than he does his own children.
He’s spent the bulk of his career in Washington, advising, negotiating, and smoothing over crises behind closed doors, with a posting abroad as U.S. Ambassador to Belgium, and head of mission to the European Union.
After Lowell’s arrest and his own quiet exoneration, my father carried on as Senior Diplomatic Advisor to the Secretary of State, untouched by the fallout. Men like my father absorb damage and keep moving.
My father’s assistant called to inform me that my presence was expected at the Hamilton Fellowship Ball. My father wants both his daughters there—an intentional show of unity at an event he sits on the board of. Optics matter in this town. Everyone is always watching.
This is Daddy’s playground—one where he glides effortlessly, and people like me try not to trip over the carpet.
“You’re late.” I hear Maggie before her hand closes around my arm, her grip firm, like she’s worried I’m going to bolt.
“Maggie,” I greet.
She looks me over once, quick and efficient, assessing whether I’ll embarrass her. Satisfied, she nods. “Daddy wants us to make the rounds. A few people he needs face time with.”
I nod because that’s what I’m here for. Maggie will talk. I’ll smile.
We move together into the current of the room, Maggie steering us toward a cluster of men in tailored suits and women in evening dresses that cost more than the average monthly rent.
She does the introductions smoothly, seamlessly—names, titles, committees, vague references to future lunches, and pending legislation.
I offer my hand when prompted, murmur polite hellos, and keep my answers short and pleasant.
“Maggie,” someone says warmly. “How are you doing?”
Maggie beams and, after a bit of small talk, introduces me almost as an afterthought.
No one asks about me or after me. I’m the Cahill sister who isn’t in politics, and in this room, that makes me decorative—someone that wouldn’t be noticed if they were missing, but once in place, requires no further attention.
This is the rhythm. Maggie speaks. I nod. I exist as punctuation.
Eventually, she guides us toward my father, who’s standing near the edge of the room with a drink in hand, deep in conversation with two men I don’t know but instinctively know are powerful.
His expression doesn’t change when he sees us, but his attention sharpens.
“Enya.” He steps forward when Maggie peels away to greet someone else. “You look well.”
“Thank you, Daddy. You, too.”
He lowers his voice. “I’m glad you came.”
I don’t say I didn’t have a damn choice because I did have one, a choice that is, I just don’t know how to walk away from him. After all these years, I still hate to disappoint him.
“There’s been enough noise lately,” he continues. “Appearances matter.”
“I understand.”
He studies me for a moment, like he’s checking for cracks. Finding none, he nods once, satisfied. “No waves, today, okay?”
Like I ever make waves.
“Yes, Daddy.”
Right then, someone draws his attention away, and I exhale slowly, hoping for a reprieve and to be left alone with my glass of water with a lemon twist. I got it from a passing waiter as a prop. Maggie didn’t ask why I’m not drinking—she isn’t, either.
We don’t drink in public.
Daddy forbids it.
“You get drunk, you do something stupid, it impacts me. So, drink in private. Got it?”
But I can’t catch a break because a familiar voice calls my name. My stomach sinks.
Barclay. My ex. The State Department climber who once told me I was ‘refreshing’ only to later admit he’d really meant ‘useful.’
He stands in front of me in an expensive tux that he probably rented, a statuesque woman in emerald silk draped on his arm.
“Enya, how are you?”
“Good,” I mumble, looking for an escape.
“Are you”—he gives me an insolent once over—“still running your little flower shop?”
He always called it that, just like that, with disdain, like it was beneath him.
Asshole.
Obviously, I have terrible taste in men.
Barclay is a complete dick with good acting skills. It took me three months to see through him. Sure, my ego was bruised, but not my heart. We dated. The sex was mediocre. His intellect was average. He wouldn’t even make a footnote if I ever wrote a memoir.
“Yes,” I reply pithily.
His date smiles like she already feels sorry for me. “That’s adorable.”
“This is Kendall Chandler,” he introduces me to his companion. “She’s a staffer for….”
I zone him out as he drops names like pigeons drop shit at the National Mall.
“So,” Barclay continues, voice dripping with faux concern, “are you here alone?”
I open my mouth—no idea what I’ll say—when an arm slides around my waist.
Warm. Solid.
Familiar.
My breath stops.
Nick.
Nick?
He stands beside me like he’s been doing it every day for a lifetime.
Broad shoulders in a perfectly tailored charcoal suit, jaw clean-shaven, blue eyes steady and unreadable—but softer than I remember. Softer in a way that hurts.
“Sorry, I’m late, sweetheart.”
Barclay blinks. His date’s mouth falls open just a little.
He extends his hand coolly. “Dominic Delacour.”
Barclay shakes it like he’s gripping a live wire. “Delacour?”
“Yes.”
Nick kisses my temple.
I can’t move. I can’t speak. My body goes utterly still, like I’ve been struck from the inside out.
Is Dominic even his real name or another alias? Is Nick short for Dominic?
“You…ah….” Barclay clears his throat, visibly rattled. I’ve never seen him like this. “Oh my God. You’re the new—”
“Senior Vice President of Strategic Operations at Sentinel Group,” Nick supplies calmly.
Even I have heard of Sentinel Group. They’re one of those firms people mention carefully—private, well-funded, and trusted with problems that never make the news.
Barclay looks just as shocked as I am to have Nick…Dominic—whoever he is—touching me again. For a moment, I wonder if he knows about the baby, and that’s why he’s here.
I reject that thought immediately. How would he know? I barely know.
“Right. Yes. Of course.” Barclay laughs weakly. “And you’re with—”
“Enya,” he finishes. “We’ve been dating for a while.”
Barclay is having trouble with that concept. So am I. I was dating Nick Smith for a while. I have no idea who this Dominic Delacour is. And why does that last name sound so familiar?
“Dominic, it’s a pleasure.” Now, Barclay’s date is clamoring for Nick’s attention. “You know, I worked quite closely with Senator Mount on your brother-in-law’s federal judgeship.”
I’ve lived in D.C. my entire life. I know how to put two and two together—and I finally do.
Delacour.
Daisy Delacour. Hollywood producer married to Forest Knight, a California Supreme Court justice who’s expected to run for governor.
The same judge who famously shut down the Senate hearings when they turned ugly, who refused to let senators take swings at his wife, and walked away from a federal appeals court nomination without looking back.
This is not an alias, a legend—Nick is Dominic Delacour, related to the Knight family, one of the wealthiest in America.
And he’s my baby daddy.
“You must tell Judge Knight that Kendall Chandler sends her regards,” she purrs.
Nick…Dominic…shrugs. “I’m sure he won’t remember you.”
Okay, that’s not diplomatic at all. Not even a little bit.
“And who are you?” he impudently asks Barclay, who squares his shoulders and puffs up.
“Barclay Morrison. State Department liaison.”
Nick’s smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “Ah. One of the junior ones.”
I choke on a gasp. Barclay’s face turns an interesting shade of red.
Nick looks at me then, and what passes between us is electric, recognizable, and…terrifying.
“Excuse us,” he says gruffly, and walks me away.
I let him because I don’t know what’s up or down right now.
When we are tucked away in a secluded corner, he grits out, “You dated that son of a bitch?”
That snaps me out of whatever parallel universe I was frozen in. “Yeah, I seem to have dated more than one son of a bitch.”
“Enya—”
“What do you think you’re doing here?” I demand, my pulse hammering.
I thought I’d never see him again, and here he is. Flesh and blood. I can smell his cologne. It’s the same one he wore when we were together. Was that part of a persona or the real him?
He studies me with unnerving stillness—like he’s trying to memorize me.
“I came to talk to you,” he divulges. “And because your father invited me.”
That makes no sense. “Why would he—?”
Dom’s gaze shifts, arrogance flickering in his eyes. “Because of my new job.”
Right. He’s a big dog at Sentinel now.
And then it hits me. That’s why Daddy wanted me here. He invited Nick. Guess he isn’t pissed off with me anymore for bringing an NSA special agent into his home, not when that special agent is Dominic Delacour.
“I quit the NSA,” he tells me.
The palms of my hand roll into fists. “And why should I give a flying fuck?”
I see him flinch. I don’t swear a lot. Grandma Lucille drummed that into me.
“Speak the way you want to be spoken to, sweet girl, and none of those disgusting words.”
He takes a step toward me. I move back.
“Baby, we need to talk. I need to tell you everything. No lies. Not ever again.”
I swallow, throat tight. “You can’t just show up and—”
“I know,” he murmurs. “I know you’re hurt. I know. I want to make it right.”
The ballroom lights shimmer above us. The air is too warm. My pulse is screaming.
I’ll have to tell him now that I’m having his baby—and then what? Will we co-parent? What?
A part of me is giddy at the idea of being tethered to him for life—and another is scared out of her wits for the same reason.
“You seduced me to get close to my father; that son of a bitch Barclay did the same.”
He lets out an arrogant huff. “Don’t compare me with that idiot.”
I shake my head, a wave of sadness making me tremble. “I am the idiot, Nick”—I let out a jagged laugh—“Hell, I don’t even know what your name is.”
“I’m Nick…your Nick.”
“You’re NSA’s Nick Smith,” I throw back at him. “You’re my nothing.”
Except the father of my child.
Oh God! I have no idea how he’s going to react when he finds out.
He’s going to be upset, isn’t he?
Is he going to blame me for getting pregnant?
What if he asks me to get an abortion?
I don’t know this man. I don’t know how he’s going to react to this news. I should know the man who impregnated me, shouldn’t I?
As Cass would say, “Holy fucking cosmic plot twist.”