Chapter 37
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Rhodes
Few homes in D.C. are as spectacular as the French ambassador’s residence. I’d understood it was quite the honor to be invited to the ambassador’s reception for the Bastille Day Gala, but it didn’t mean much to me until amazement lights Sydney’s eyes.
The strains of classical music fill the air as we’re guided through the home’s foyer, passing classical paintings, elegant tapestries, and stunning flower arrangements.
I’ve attended dozens of these events—diplomatic receptions, embassy galas, fundraisers where powerful people gather to see and be seen.
The opulence has always felt hollow, necessary but meaningless.
But watching Sydney take in each detail with genuine wonder transforms the experience entirely.
Every carved molding, every piece of art becomes something worth noticing because she notices it.
It would all mean nothing to me except for Sydney’s wide-eyed wonder. Yes, I am invited to places such as this, and I can give her this life.
The thought arrives with startling clarity, catching me off guard.
Where did that come from? I’ve spent years perfecting the art of keeping women at arm’s length, even while suggesting otherwise.
Especially while suggesting otherwise. A well-placed comment about “someday” or “when we” has always been my go-to move—just vague enough to be non-committal, just specific enough to keep them interested.
It’s a practiced technique that’s served me well, keeping relationships light and temporary while making women feel like they’re part of some greater possibility.
But this thought wasn’t calculated. It wasn’t a line or a strategy.
The image that flashed through my mind was visceral and immediate: Sydney at my side at events like this, not as my guest but as my partner.
Someone who would appreciate the beauty without being impressed by the power.
Someone who would ground me when the political theater became too much.
Could I be more pompous?
The self-awareness hits like a cold splash of water.
Here I am, mentally redesigning this woman’s entire life around my wealth and access, as if she’s some project to be managed or prize to be won.
As if she couldn’t achieve any of this on her own, as if her amazement at the ambassador’s residence means she’s been waiting her whole life for someone like me to elevate her circumstances.
But even as I mock myself, I can’t shake the feeling. The rightness of her being here. The way she fits.
Sydney squeezes my forearm. “Look at that staircase.”
The elaborately carved staircase is beautiful. “I believe that leads to the private chambers,” I say, knowing this only because I glimpsed a small sign and the passage is blocked with a velvet rope.
“I’ve never seen such a beautiful railing,” she says, more to herself than to me.
Here it comes. The autopilot response, honed through years of practice. The casual reference to a shared future that sounds romantic but commits to nothing. I can feel the words forming—smooth, charming, and ultimately hollow.
“Remember it. When we build a home we can have one commissioned.”
But as the words leave my mouth, something shifts.
This isn’t just another line. The image in my mind isn’t vague or theoretical—it’s specific.
Sydney running her hand along a custom-carved railing in a home we designed together.
Morning coffee in a kitchen we chose together.
The kind of domestic intimacy I’ve avoided since splitting with my ex.
Surprise flashes across her features. “If you like.”
The addendum tumbles out, an attempt to backpedal, to restore the casual nature of the comment. But it’s too late. I can hear the difference in my own voice, the way the suggestion carried weight instead of practiced lightness.
Her eyes narrow, studying me with an intensity that makes me wonder what she sees. Then she seemingly dismisses whatever conclusion she’s reached as we step outside onto the terrace and she takes in the guests.
But I can’t dismiss it as easily. Because for the first time in years, when I mentioned building a future with someone, part of me—a part I’m not quite ready to acknowledge—actually meant it.
Senator Crawford sees us and holds up a champagne flute in acknowledgement.
A woman, presumably his wife, shifts to see who he is addressing.
She’s in a royal blue floor-length gown.
A sapphire necklace leads enticingly to her decolletage boosted by her strapless dress.
As we approach, I notice the dress and jewelry set off matching blue eyes, but there’s a coldness there.
She has the expression of a taskmaster or a haughty professor.
Crawford stands by her side but the tension between the two of them is hard to miss. Crawford extends his hand.
“Rhodes. It’s a beautiful night, is it not?”
He’s right, it is. As we stand on the terrace surveying the crowd, the festive aura is impossible to disregard. Golden light spheres and candles glimmer throughout the terrain, including bobbing in the pool for a magical effect.
“It is.” My fingers fall over Sydney’s where they rest on my forearm. “May I introduce my date? Sydney Parker, this is Senator Crawford. And I’m sorry–” I stop myself, as I realize this might not be his wife, but he picks up where I awkwardly stopped.
“Nice to meet you Sydney. And, this is my wife, Glenda.”
Sydney and Glenda exchange cordial smiles. It could be my imagination, but I sense Sydney shifting closer to my side.
“Is this your first time attending?” Glenda asks.
“It is,” I admit. “They didn’t have it last year, right?”
“Yes, that’s correct. They don’t throw it every year, but when they do…” Her gaze takes in the event which could easily command a million dollar price tag. “I believe this one is my all-time favorite.” Her attention falls to Sydney. “You’re quite fortunate this is your first.”
“I’m thrilled to be here,” Syd answers without missing a beat, coming across like she’s never been anywhere near anything so extravagant. And, maybe she hasn’t, but she’s well-traveled and lived abroad. I expect she’s truly impressed, but I also suspect this isn’t her first high-powered affair.
“You look familiar to me,” Glenda says. “Are you sure we haven’t met her?” She directs the question to her side, in the general direction of her husband.
Crawford sips his champagne, contemplative. When he lowers it, he’s decisive. “Were you by chance at the US Embassy in Paris?”
“Yes,” Sydney answers as I accept two champagne flutes from a passing staff member.
“I knew it,” Glenda says. “I never forget a face.”
“Ah, yes. Now I remember your boyfriend…” He pauses, gaze cutting to me. “…at the time. A chef, right?”
“Yes. He’s still in Paris.”
There’s an awkward beat as we all four stand with glasses.
“Ah, there’s Devon,” he says, looking through the crowd. “He looks a little lost. Will you excuse us?”
“Of course,” I say, and we watch as Crawford and his wife approach Dristol. He seems to have arrived on his own, without a date.
“I need to ask you something,” she says, voice low, politely smiling as we traverse the steps away from the terrace to an opening on the pavers by the lawn. “The deal. Shouldn’t you take it?”
I pause, realizing what she overheard. “I wouldn’t honor it. Therefore, it’s probably best not to take it. I’d prefer to not make enemies of those with a proclivity for tossing enemies out windows.”
“Yes but is there a way…” She scans the crowd, smiling, and it’s at this moment I realize she’s purposefully expressing awe at our magical setting, “Think about what you’d learn.”
“I can’t imagine they’d offer me direct evidence of what you’re seeking.”
“No, but we’d get valuable leads.”
I bend to whisper in her ear, using the movement as an excuse to place my arm on her lower back and draw her near, when a dark shadow steps forward, blocking our view of the event. I follow the tuxedo lines up to a face I recognize, the recognition stirring mixed emotions.
“Miles. I didn’t realize you’d be in attendance.”
“Didn’t I tell you?” He angles his body to align with Syd. “And is this beauty the one who stole your heart on the holiday I forced you to take?”
“The one and only,” I say, squeezing her hip lightly. “Sydney Parker, this is my partner, Miles Johnson.” He takes her hand in his, and I’m taken in by the contrast between her light and his dark skin.
Within moments he has her laughing. Miles is charming, always has been. That’s why he’s the business lead and the people person.
As if sensing I have topics I want to address with my partner, Sydney makes an excuse that she needs to visit the restroom before we’re seated for dinner. As we both watch her leave, I shift the conversation to business.
“Daisy’s going to be taking a leave,” I say.
His lower lip juts, thoughtfully, and he swirls his remaining champagne and tosses what’s left back in one swallow. “She’s your department, not mine.” He sets his glass on a passing tray. “Everything okay?”
I could tell him I’m not sure, give him the details, but if Daisy wants to do that, she can. The three of us have spent plenty of time together over the years. “Why were you at the Russian embassy?”
A slow smile spreads and he looks past my shoulders, causing me to do the same, but I don’t recognize anyone in the crowd.
“Going right for it, huh?”
“Did you put them up to making the offer? You don’t actually want an investigation, but you want to force my hand. You want to trap me, don’t you?”
“Rhodes.” He says my name under his breath, and it’s a mix of a huff and muted anger. “You’re holding us back.”
“From a public offering?” I ask, seeking clarification I don’t need.
“From growth. Look, I get the ethical concerns.”
“Do you?”
He glares. “Yes, I do. But if you hold us back, someone else is going to do exactly what we want to do. The only way to guide the growth is to own it.”
“We do own it.”
“But you’re holding it back.”
A few heads turn and Miles smiles, nodding, recognizing he spoke loudly enough to garner attention.
“We can talk tomorrow.”
“We’ll need to,” I say. “Don’t think I’ll easily forget that you went behind my back in an effort to trap me. And if I know you, your end game is to kick me out of the company? Force me to step down.”
“It’s not what I want, man,” he says, tapping my elbow, as if a simple touch will sweep his backstabbing effort under the carpet.
“When you say it’s not what you want, is it what Alex wants? All those investor meetings he’s been pushing, the constant IPO pressure—has he been building a coalition against me? Are they looking for ways to force me out? Because you know me better than that, Miles. I won’t be forced out.”
“Let’s talk tomorrow. I’ll swing by your hotel. This isn’t the place to have this discussion.” He steps away, effectively ending the conversation.
As Miles departs, Senator Crawford approaches. His wife is nowhere in sight.
“Wanted to ask you,” he says, one hand on his chest as if he’s pressing down a tie, yet he’s wearing a bowtie and cummerbund. “Any chance you have time to meet tomorrow, before you head home?”
“I do.”
“Great. I’ll shoot you a text in the morning.” He smiles, and I’m about to ask him where Glenda is when he smiles at someone nearby, pats my back and steps forward to a man I recognize as one of his fellow senators.
I watch him, wondering what he could want to meet with me about. Is it possible he’s going to push the Russian case? Or is he wondering if I took the bait? Dristol and Romanovich were quite cozy. Is Dristol operating on behalf of his boss?
Miles orchestrating pressure from one side, Crawford requesting a meeting from another. There are too many converging forces for coincidence.
When Sydney returns from the restroom, I fill her in as dinner is announced.
“Interesting,” she says. “What do you say we enjoy the evening and debate all the possibilities in the morning?”
It’s a wise suggestion. “As you wish, beautiful.”
She leans in and I brush my lips across her temple.
“This isn’t the place to talk it through,” she says, as if an explanation is needed. With a glossy smile, she adds, “And I feel like I’m at Cinderella’s ball. Will you be my prince?”
“Yes. But fair warning. If you lose a shoe, I won’t hunt for it. I’ll just buy another pair.”
“He wasn’t actually looking for the glass slipper. He was looking for her.”
I tap her bracelet.
“Lucky for me, these days life’s improved for the princes.”