Chapter 21
TWENTY-ONE
Madeline
I’m already dressed, suitcase packed, hair pulled back in a half-composed attempt to look like someone who didn’t spend the night being absolutely ruined in her hotel bed when a frantic knock rattles the hotel room door. It’s sharp enough to jolt my heart into my throat.
“Did you order room service?” Jesse asks, walking out of the bathroom, shirtless, hair still damp, looking like sin and trouble. Last night hits me in a rush so vivid I suck in a breath.
The way he took control, murmuring things in my ear I didn’t even know I needed to hear until he said them.
Calling me his good girl, telling me to look at him, begging me to come for him.
And he looked incredible without his clothes—all lean muscle and tanned skin.
I can still feel the weight of his body over mine, the way he held my hips in place, the way he watched me fall apart on his cock like it was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.
Then afterward, when we finally made it to the shower, he was gentle. He washed me like I was something precious, tracing soap over my shoulders, down my arms, over my stomach. Kissing my forehead when I leaned into him, his thumb brushing my cheek when my eyes fluttered closed.
No one has ever touched me like that. No one has ever made me feel that seen. We fell asleep tangled in the sheets as soon as our heads hit the pillows.
“No,” I respond, almost forgetting he asked me a question. “I have no idea who it could be.”
The knock comes again. He shoots me a side-eye before crossing the room and peers through the peephole. When he turns back to face me, meeting my gaze, my body freezes.
“What is it?” I ask.
“It’s your parents.”
My eyes widen. “Here? Why—”
I don’t have time to form a complete thought before Jesse’s opening the door.
My mother sweeps in first—crisp suit, perfect hair, rigid posture, and a look that could stop a wildfire.
My father lingers behind her, looking serious, composed, and holding his phone like he’s been checking it relentlessly.
My mother stops in her tracks when she sees the room. Her gaze skims over my packed bags, the destroyed bed, and a very shirtless, very damp-from-the-shower Jesse Winters standing six feet away.
Her polite, political smile doesn’t budge but her eyes sharpen.
“Madeline,” she says, voice sweet in the fakest way possible. “You didn’t answer our calls this morning.”
“I’m sorry, my ringer was off,” I answer, gaze flicking to Jesse, who is tossing his T-shirt over his head. “How did you find out my room number?”
“I told the front desk that it was an emergency,” she says breezily, adding, “Of course, they know who your father is.”
“Pretty sure that’s illegal, Mom,” I reply, arms crossing instinctively.
“Oh, there are exceptions to every rule. Anyways, Elliot and his parents are expecting us at eleven. I don’t want to make them wait.”
My inner dread spikes. “Elliot?” I repeat flatly. “You came here because of Elliot?”
“I thought we told you last night,” my father says, stepping in. “His parents are looking forward to meeting you properly at brunch. I’d like you to get to know him better. There are…opportunities there.”
I laugh in disbelief. Of course, they would show up here still wanting to set me up with Elliot even though as far as they’re concerned, I’m dating Jesse.
I shake my head. Everything with them comes down to a political strategy.
They’re always assessing things, making calculations, trying to figure out what they need to do to end up on top. It’s Ashcroft 101.
My mother gives a tight smile. “Elliot is a very promising connection, Madeline. His family is extremely well positioned. You disappearing from the gala without saying goodbye to Elliot or introducing yourself to his parents didn’t reflect well on us.”
Jesse shifts behind me, silent but very much present. My mother looks at him like he’s a detail she’ll need to scrub out of a report.
I take a calming breath, trying to keep my voice even when I say, “You remember that I’m here with my boyfriend, right?”
The word hangs there like a grenade. My mother blinks slowly, followed by a long, pointed silence.
Eventually, my father exhales, pinching the bridge of his nose.
“Madeline, you know how important these relationships are. This isn’t personal, umm…
” He looks at Jesse but clearly can’t even remember his name.
“His name is Jesse, Dad.”
My father’s gaze shifts to me, then back to Jesse. “This isn’t personal, Jesse, but…” he trails off, then turns to me, leaving the sentence unfinished.
“Sweetheart…Elliot’s family controls one of the biggest political action committees in the country…
donors, endorsements, media connections, all of it.
They’re supportive of my re-election campaign but we need to develop a stronger relationship.
Their backing is crucial. You and Elliot are similar in age, you have the same background.
His parents only suggested that if you and he spent more time together, it might help… solidify things.”
My mouth falls open. “You can’t just—”
“Oh, Madeline, please stop being so dramatic,” my mom interjects, smoothing her blazer.
“Elliot is a lovely young man, with a very bright future. We are only asking that you spend a little time with him.” She sighs, looking at my father.
“I knew she would make this difficult. Nothing is ever easy with her.”
“I’m going to stop you right there,” Jesse cuts in. “Madeline is a grown woman; she has every right to make her own choices. She is not a political pawn. Now, if you’ll excuse us, we have a plane to catch.”
His voice slices cleanly through the room. The silence that follows is deafening. My mother’s spine goes rigid, chin lifting a fraction—a tell that she’s silently seething. My father stands stiffly next to her, a vein visibly ticking near his temple.
“Madeline,” my father says. “This conversation is not finished.”
“Yes,” Jesse answers for me. “It is.”
My mother assesses him for a moment, eyes narrowed. Then a thin smile stretches across her lips. “We’ll be in touch,” she says sharply, turning toward the door.
The second the door shuts behind them, I let out a shuddering breath and cover my face with both hands, mortification washing over me so fast it makes my knees weak. “Oh my God,” I whisper into my palms. “I can’t believe—”
It takes me a second to realize Jesse is talking to someone. He’s across the room with the hotel phone pressed to his ear, jaw hard, eyes set with that controlled fury I’m learning is more dangerous than any raised voice.
“Yes,” he says, clipped and firm. “The manager, please.”
My stomach flips. “Jesse. What are you—”
He holds up a finger, not to shush me, but to tell me he needs one second.
“Yes, I’ll hold,” he says tightly, pacing once in front of the bed. My heart stutters.
“Hi,” he says when someone picks up. “This is Jesse Winters. I need to file a complaint. Two people were granted access to our room number without authorization. They showed up at our door this morning, uninvited, and I want to know how they were given that information. And before you give me some excuse, I don’t care who they said they were.
You do not share guests’ information with anyone. Not for any reason.”
He pauses, listening, eyes flicking to me for the first time. They’re filled with fire and concern, causing a whirlwind of emotion to twist through my chest. I stand here, rooted to the carpet watching as he fights for me in a way not many people have.
It should be enough to wipe away the embarrassment and the sting of my parents barging into our hotel room.
But some wounds sit too deep, carved by years of heartache.