8. Roman
ROMAN
The afternoon sits easy. Too easy, maybe.
Ivy's curled up on the couch, bare feet tucked under her, scrolling through something on her phone while Knox argues with West about whether the security feed from the south gate needs a firmware update. I'm standing near the window, coffee in hand, watching the driveway without meaning to.
Old habit. Always watching exits.
She laughs at something on her screen—soft, private—and the sound does what it always does. Settles something in my chest I didn't know was unsettled.
This is what normal looks like now. The four of us in the same room. Her wearing one of Knox's shirts. West's hand on her when he walks past. Me watching her laugh and not needing a reason to justify why.
Then the gate buzzes.
I hear it first. Knox stops mid-sentence. West's head turns toward the door. Ivy looks up, confused.
"Expecting someone?" Knox asks.
I'm already moving toward the security panel. Two taps and the screen shows the front camera. Black sedan. Government plates.
My pulse doesn't spike. It drops into something slower, colder.
"That's the senator's car."
Ivy sits up fast. "What? No. He's not supposed to be back for two more weeks."
I don't answer. I'm already pulling up the internal feeds, checking timestamps, running through contingencies. Knox is beside me now, reading the same screen.
"Mom's with him," he says, voice flat.
West moves to the window. "Engine's still running. Driver stayed in the car."
That detail lands wrong. If this were a normal visit, the driver would've parked. Cut the engine. This isn't a normal visit.
The front door opens.
I turn.
Victor Calloway walks into his own house like he's entering hostile territory—shoulders set, jaw tight, eyes already sweeping the room. Mom's a step behind him, and the look on her face guts me. Not anger. Sadness. The kind that says she knows something no one else does yet.
Victor doesn't say hello. Doesn't ask how we've been. Doesn't acknowledge his daughter sitting three feet away.
He pulls a manila folder from under his arm and drops it on the coffee table.
The sound of paper hitting wood is the loudest thing in the room.
"Explain this."
His voice isn't raised. That's worse.
I don't move toward the folder. I already know what's inside. Ivy doesn't. She stands, takes two steps, reaches for it.
"Don't." I say it quiet. She freezes.
Victor's eyes cut to me. "She should see what you've been doing."
Knox steps forward. "Victor?—"
"Senator Calloway," Victor snaps, and that tells me everything about where his head is right now.
Mom touches his arm. "Victor."
He shakes her off—gentle, but firm—and flips the folder open himself.
Photos spill out. Maybe a dozen. Printed. High resolution.
Ivy's face goes white.
The photos aren't explicit. No nudity. No sex. But they don't need to be.
One shows Knox's hand on her hip in the kitchen, her head tipped back against his shoulder. Another catches West leaning in close, his mouth near her ear, her eyes half-closed. A third is me and her on the couch—her legs across my lap, my thumb tracing circles on her ankle.
Domestic. Intimate. Undeniable.
I don't look at the photos long. I look at the angles. The vantage points. Kitchen shot came from near the pantry. Couch shot from the hallway. Every single one taken from inside the house.
"Where did you get these?" I ask.
Victor's head snaps toward me. "That's your question? Not 'I'm sorry' or 'I can explain'—you want to know where I got them?"
"Yes."
His jaw works. Claire closes her eyes.
"They were sent to me," Victor says. Each word lands like a door slamming. "Along with a very clear message. Withdraw from the presidential race, or these go public. All of them. Not just the tame ones."
Ivy makes a sound—small, broken.
I step in front of her. Not obvious. Just enough to put myself between her and her father's line of sight. Knox shifts left. West right. We don't coordinate it. We don't need to.
Victor notices. His face darkens.
"You were supposed to protect her." His voice cracks on the last word, and that crack is what makes this real. He's not a politician right now. He's a father. "I left her with you because I trusted you. I asked you to keep her safe, and you?—"
He stops. Jaw locked so tight I can see the muscle jump.
"You took advantage."
"No," Ivy says, voice raw. "Dad, it's not?—"
"I'm not talking to you right now." Victor doesn't look at her. He's looking at me. Only me. "I'm talking to the man who stood in my office and shook my hand and promised me my daughter would be safe under his watch."
I don't look away.
"She was safe," I say. "She is safe."
"Safe?" Victor's laugh is ugly. "You call this safe? Someone took photos of my daughter in her own home—intimate photos—and sent them to me as blackmail, and you're telling me she's safe?"
"Yes."
The single word drops into the room like a stone into still water.
Victor's face flushes. "You son of a?—"
"Victor." Mom’s voice cuts through. Quiet. Firm. She hasn't moved from her spot near the door, but her presence shifts the energy. "Let him finish."
Victor's mouth snaps shut. He's shaking.
I wait. Count three breaths. Then I ask again.
"Who sent you the email?"
"What does it matter?"
"It matters."
"I don't know who sent it," Victor bites out. "It came from an encrypted account. No name. No signature. Just the photos and the threat."
"When?"
"Yesterday morning. European time. I was in a meeting with the German foreign minister and my phone went off and—" He stops. Shakes his head. "We left immediately. Flew back commercial. Didn't tell anyone we were coming because I didn't know who I could trust."
I glance at Knox. He's already moving.
"What are you doing?" Victor's voice sharpens. "I'm not done?—"
"You are," I say. Still quiet. Still controlled. "Because before you say anything else, you need to know who sent those photos. And why."
Victor goes still. "You know?"
"We've known for three days."
Ivy's breath catches behind me. I don't turn.
The door to the hallway opens. Knox walks back in. He's not alone.
Dina follows, her face pale, her hands twisting the edge of her apron. Knox isn't touching her, but his presence behind her makes it clear she's not here by choice.
At the same time, West appears from the other side of the room. Marcus Webb is in front of him—perfectly composed, perfectly groomed, still wearing his chief of staff mask like it's not about to crack.
West doesn't say anything. He just stands there. Blocking the exit.
Victor's eyes go wide. "Marcus? What?—"
"The threats you've been receiving," I say, cutting through his confusion. "They weren't random. They came from inside your operation. Specifically, they came from him."
I nod toward Marcus.
Victor's face goes blank. Not angry. Not disbelieving. Just blank, like his brain refuses to process the words.
"That's absurd," Marcus says smoothly. Too smoothly. "Senator, I've been with you for two years. I've dedicated my career to?—"
"You've been feeding information to Alan Voss," I say.
"For money. Dina's been your inside source.
She reports on household movements, schedule changes, family routines.
You craft the threats, send them through encrypted channels, and report back to the senator that the investigation is ongoing.
There is no investigation. You're the threat. "
Silence.
Victor's hand drops to his side. He looks at Marcus—really looks at him—like he's seeing a stranger wearing a familiar face.
"No," he says. Soft. Almost to himself. "No, you—you've been with me since the beginning. You helped me draft my first campaign platform. You were at my wedding. You?—"
"I was doing my job," Marcus says. His voice is still calm, but there's an edge now. "And when Alan Voss made me a better offer, I took it. That's politics, Senator. You taught me that."
Mom makes a sound. Small. Wounded.
Knox pulls a tablet from his back pocket and hands it to Victor.
"We ran a canary trap. Planted different false information with different staff members.
Dina's version appeared in the next threat communication.
From there, we traced her burner phone to Marcus's personal laptop.
The correspondence is all there. Timestamps. Wire transfers. Everything."
Victor takes the tablet. His hands shake.
I keep going. "The photos were taken by Dina using her phone. She sent them to Marcus. He weaponized them as leverage—not just to blackmail you, but to destabilize your campaign. The goal was never money from you. It was to force you out of the race so Voss could take the lead without competition."
Victor's eyes stay locked on the screen. Scrolling. Reading. His face drains of color.
"The affair—" Victor's voice cracks. He clears his throat. Tries again. "The affair between my daughter and—" He can't finish the sentence. "That was just... convenient?"
"That was real," I say. "But yes. Convenient for them."
Dina's crying now. Quiet, exhausted tears that don't move anyone in this room.
"I needed the money," she whispers. "My son—he has medical bills, and I couldn't?—"
"You sold out my family," Victor says. Not loud. Not cruel. Just factual. "For money."
Dina's face crumples.
Marcus, on the other hand, doesn't flinch. "If it helps, Senator, I was never going to release the explicit photos. Those were just for leverage. The tamer ones would've been enough to raise questions about your judgment. About your ability to manage your own household, let alone the country."
Victor's hand closes around the tablet. For a second, I think he's going to throw it. He doesn't. He just breathes.
"Get them out," he says.
Mom already has her phone out. "I'm calling the police."
"Already done," West says. "They're two minutes out."
Victor looks at his chief of staff—his former chief of staff—and something in his expression makes my chest tighten. Betrayal doesn't look like anger. It looks like grief.
"Two years," Victor says quietly. "You looked me in the eye every day for two years."
Marcus doesn't answer.
The sound of sirens fills the silence.
The police take statements. Marcus and Dina are read their rights. Cuffs go on. The door closes behind them.
And then it's just us.
Six people in a room that suddenly feels too small.
Victor sits down. Not on the couch—on the arm of the chair, like he's not sure he's allowed to get comfortable in his own house anymore. Mom stands beside him, her hand on his shoulder.
Ivy's still near the window, arms wrapped around herself, face blotchy and red.
Knox, West, and I stand in a loose line.
Victor stares at the floor for a long time. When he finally looks up, he looks at his daughter.
"Why?"
One word. That's all he gives her.
Ivy's face crumples. She tries to speak, chokes on it, shakes her head.
"Dad, I—" Her voice breaks. She tries again. "I didn't plan this. I didn't—I wasn't trying to?—"
She stops. Wipes her face with the heel of her hand.
"I don't know," she whispers. "I don't know why it had to be them. I don't know why I never looked at anyone else before this. I don't know how to explain it in a way that makes sense because it doesn't make sense to me either."
Victor's jaw tightens.
"I'm sorry," Ivy says, and the desperation in her voice cracks something in my chest. "I'm sorry, okay? I know it's wrong. I know it's—it's?—"
She can't find the word. She's sobbing now, the kind of crying that shakes her whole body.
"I didn't mean to fall for them," she says, barely audible. "I didn't mean to want this. But I do. I do, and I don't know how to stop, and I'm sorry, I'm so sorry?—"
I move before I realize I'm moving. One step toward her. Knox's hand catches my arm.
I stop.
Every instinct I have is screaming at me to go to her. To pull her out of this room. To tell her she has nothing to apologize for. To make her stop crying.
I don't move.
This is between her and her father. I don't have a place in it. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
So I stand there and I watch her break and I don't do a damn thing to stop it.
Victor runs a hand over his face. He looks older than he did ten minutes ago.
"There's more," he says quietly.
Ivy looks up, red-eyed.
"Some of the photos are already out," Victor says. "A few media outlets received them anonymously this morning. They're vetting the story, but by tonight—maybe sooner—it's going to break. Your relationship with your stepbrothers will be public knowledge."
The room goes cold.
Ivy's face drains. "No. No, they can't?—"
"They can," Victor says. "And they will. I can't stop it. I can try to control the narrative, but—" He stops. Looks at me. At Knox. At West. "You need to be prepared. All of you."
Knox's hand tightens on my arm. West hasn't moved, but his breathing's changed. Slower. Controlled.
I meet Victor's eyes. "We'll handle it."
"Will you?" Victor's voice is hollow. "Because I don't know if I can."
Mom's hand moves from his shoulder to his back. She doesn't say anything. She doesn't need to.
Victor stands. "I need time."
Ivy's face crumples again. "Dad?—"
"I need time," he repeats, firmer this time. "I'm not—I'm not saying I'll never forgive you. I'm not saying this is over. I'm saying I need time to process what I just learned. All of it. Marcus. The threats. You and—" He gestures vaguely toward us. "This."
He moves toward the door. Mom follows.
Before she leaves, she stops. Turns. Looks at her sons.
Her hand reaches out—small, brief—and touches Knox's arm. Just a second. Then she's gone.
The door closes.
The sound of the car engine starting is muffled through the walls. Then it fades.
And then it's just the four of us.
Ivy stares at the door for five seconds. Ten. Her breathing's uneven, shaky.
Then she turns and walks.
Fast. Not running, but close. Down the hallway toward her bedroom.
She doesn't look at us. Doesn't say anything. Just goes.
The door to her room slams.
I stare at the empty hallway. My hands won't unclench. My jaw aches from how hard I'm holding it.
Knox exhales beside me. "We should?—"
"No."
West's voice. Quiet. Final.
He's right. She needs space. Her father needs space. We'll be here when she's ready.
So I stand there.
Knox on my right. West on my left.
Three of us in a room that suddenly feels too big.
The silence is the loudest thing I've ever heard.