Chapter 24
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Dorian
The moment settles—too still, too polite. That’s how I know something’s coming.
“Believe?” Isla prompts, unfazed.
“We’re wasting our time on this bullshit when I have real campaigns to run.”
“This is a real campaign,” Celeste clarifies.
“No. It’s the biggest Hail Mary in the history of politics.” Everett leans forward, fingers steepled as if he’s about to deliver a sermon no one wants to hear. “Let me set your expectations.”
Our meals are served, interrupting the conversation.
“You want to unseat an incumbent. In fucking Texas.”
He says it like we’ve announced plans to relocate the moon.
Unbothered, Celeste sips her Twinings English Breakfast tea.
“That will take a miracle. Ellery sits in the chair like it’s a throne. It will take a stick of dynamite to blast his ass back to Dallas where he belongs.”
Celeste gives a polite smile. “Which is why I hired you.”
Everett sighs. “Even unpopular incumbents don’t go quietly. And he’s not just entrenched. He’s calcified. Voter loyalty is like cement, and not the quick-set kind—this shit’s been drying for decades.”
Beside me, Isla shifts slightly. I glance at her, but her expression is unreadable.
He levels me with his glare. “You’ll need money. Not fundraiser-at-the-country-club money. I mean backroom, six-figures-in-an-envelope, favor-trading money. And time. A year and a half minimum.”
“We don’t have that much time,” Celeste points out.
He drags a hand through his hair. “Relentless scheduling. Every handshake, every baby kiss, every insult you’ll have to eat with a smile—it’ll all be choreographed.”
He ticks it off like bullets on a hit list.
“You’ll live on coffee and adrenaline. You’ll miss sleep, sex, weddings, funerals. Hell, by the end, you might miss your own damn wedding anniversary and not even know it.” His gaze flicks briefly to Isla.
I want to gut punch him.
Everett continues, undeterred. “And Ellery? He’ll outspend us five to one.
He’ll hit back before we even swing. Attack ads, whisper campaigns, leaked documents, anonymous tips.
You’ll be painted as either a slick outsider or a dangerous unknown.
And, West?” He glances at Brennan. “They’ll come for you too.
Use you to question Vale’s judgment. His stability.
” Then he looks at me again. “Your sexuality.”
My spine straightens, my jaw clenches. Brennan doesn’t move. He doesn’t have to.
Everett leans forward, his voice cutting through the haze. “ And on that note. This…arrangement.” His gaze flicks between me and Brennan. “You and West. Whatever the fuck you have going on is a liability. Voters don’t like messy.”
My jaw clenches, teeth grinding.
“This isn’t messy,” Isla says. “It’s family. You”—she holds Everett’s gaze then looks at Celeste—”and you are experts at spin. He’s a bodyguard. Make it believable. Or is my husband wasting his money with you two?”
Damn.
Brennan’s hand finds Isla’s under the table, and he brushes her knuckles. The air shifts, binding the three of us tighter than ever.
Celeste sips her tea, her eyes gleaming, like she’s savoring the tension. “Let’s move on.”
“To the rest of this shit?” Everett asks after hooking a thumb toward the file folder.
With a delicate clink of fine china on fine china, Celeste insists, “It’s not insurmountable.”
“But it’s a long fucking uphill climb.”
“We have advantages.” She turns her calculating smile on my wife, and Isla’s spine goes rigid. “Isla’s our secret weapon.”
“What the fuck?” I demand.
Isla’s eyes widen, just a fraction as she looks at me, and I watch her, trying to read the storm behind them.
“She’s not part of this.”
“She needs to be.”
“No.”
“Listen, Dorian?—”
“I got married for the sake of this campaign.”
Beside me, Isla winces.
“But I’m not dragging her through this shit.” I’ll protect her with my life .
“She’s perfect. Her platform—education, reading, community—it’s perfect. Relatable.”
“Are you listening? She’s not having a fucking platform. We’re not running for the White House.”
The unfinished part of my statement hangs in the air.
Yet.
Isla blinks. “The White House?”
“She’s an asset, and we need her.”
Everett picks up the thread. “You could teach part-time, show the voters you’re one of them. What do you think?”
Isla hesitates, her gaze flicking to the window where the veranda’s Adirondack chairs sit empty, bathed in the glow of morning sunlight.
Is she’s picturing herself in front of a classroom, shaping minds. Or imagining the horror of a run for the presidency.
Finally, slowly, she says, “I…I think reading’s vital.”
“Isla—”
As if I hadn’t expressed a warning, she goes on. “Books open doors. I’d propose a community-first education fund—libraries, tutoring, access for kids who don’t have it.” Her eyes dart to me, then Brennan, seeking something—approval, maybe, or reassurance.
Fuck.
Is she for real?
Pride swells, hot and fierce. She’s brilliant, and she doesn’t even know it.
“She’s too young,” Brennan adds.
“That’s what people said about Kennedy,” Everett counters.
Isla’s lips part, and I can’t tell if she’s stunned or flattered.
“You agree with Celeste?”
“Isla’s your best shot at any of this.”
“She needs to be seen, not hidden.” Celeste locks her gaze on me, daring me to argue .
Celeste interrupts the conversation by signaling to the waitstaff.
Instantly our dishes are cleared, crumbs are scraped from the table, fresh pots of coffee and tea are delivered, along with a small plate of the dining room’s signature bourbon pralines.
“We do need to finesse the language around the…switch at the altar,” Celeste says. “Before it becomes a liability.”
“True love,” Everett says. “The public’ll eat that shit up. As long as the sister will go along with it?”
“I imagine she will,” Isla says.
Brennan’s jaw tightens, and he moves his hand toward Isla’s. He hates this as much as I do. We want her safe, tucked away from the vultures, the rumors, the nastiness.
“We could have a partnership with local libraries.” Isla moves her hands as she speaks, and her gesture is alive with passion.
Stunned, I watch her, seeing her not just as mine but as a force—magnetic, viable, dangerous in her own right. She’s more than I ever dreamed, and it terrifies me.
When she’s done, Everett sighs. “The question isn’t will it get ugly. It’s how fast. And how much of your soul are you willing to sell to stay in it? ”
The table falls silent.
Then Isla speaks, her voice calm and measured. “But we do stand a chance?”
We.
That one word detonates inside me. I turn to her, and there’s no fear in her eyes. Just fire.
Everett opens his mouth, probably to deliver some version of not really, but Celeste speaks over him, all silk and certainty.
“Absolutely.” She looks at Isla. “Because of you.”
I hate that my wife is part of this whole thing. I want to shield her from the vipers, but Celeste is right. Isla’s our edge, a magnet for hearts and votes.
“I believe in Dorian.”
She doesn’t elaborate. She doesn’t need to. Her tone slices through the doubt like a guillotine.
When Everett remains silent, she goes on. “I thought you were the Oracle. Able to see things others can’t. A way forward, perhaps?”
Jesus. My wife is a formidable opponent.
In a few years, she’ll be as much of a barracuda as Celeste Fallon is. Unaccountably I’m glad she’s on my side.
Everett adjusts his tie, lips twitching. “Well. I’m not a goddamn miracle worker.”
“No,” Isla says sweetly. “But I think you should live up to your reputation as a kingmaker rather than making excuses for your poor performance in advance.”
Celeste clears her throat and hides a smile behind her teacup.
I squeeze Isla’s hand beneath the table, slow and firm. My chest aches—with pride, with disbelief. I married her to fix a problem. I didn’t expect to admire the hell out of her. Didn’t expect to need her in this.
She’s not just mine. She’s a damn revelation.
Celeste leans back, clearly satisfied. “We’ll move forward, then, shall we? Dorian, I’ll be in contact. We’ll need to begin work as soon as you’re back in Houston.”
“Tomorrow.” I stand and offer my hand to Isla as everyone at the table also rises.
As regal as a princess, she shakes Celeste’s hand. To Everett she says, “Show us you’re the Kingmaker.”
As we walk away from the table, I hear Everett mutter, low and stunned, “Well… fuck.”
Celeste’s answering laugh is light, musical, and absolutely lethal .
Just like my wife.
In less than five minutes, I intend to show her just how much she’s pleased me…