Chapter 4
Four
Cameron
Makayla squeezes my hand as we walk up the front steps like she’s trying to reassure me—or herself. She’s humming under her breath, hips swinging, hair curled just enough to say I tried, but not too hard.
“I’m just saying,” she says, glancing at me, “if my dad tries to size you up, flex back. He respects that alpha shit.”
“And if your mother offers sweet tea?” I ask.
“Drink it. Compliment her earrings. And don’t mention politics.” She nods quickly. “Or the Devil’s Lettuce.”
I know I’m in the back country woods if they’re referring to weed like that. I nod. “Duly noted.”
Makayla and I have been dating for a few months already.
We’re still in the newlywed-can’t-get-enough-of-each-other phase, but also settling in to being a couple now.
As I’ve gotten to know Makayla over the past several weeks, I learned she is just like Jamie in her own way.
Her parents are very conservative, her brother is a respected cop, so naturally, she had to rebel.
The timing couldn’t have been more perfect.
She hasn’t come clean about what she really does, but I imagine that conversation is coming sooner than later.
Que’s intelligence operative let me know her business has picked up.
No, it’s not because she has good shit but rather because I told some people to fall back.
Makayla has no problem treating me to fine dining, luxury shopping, and expensive vacations.
I’m enjoying all of it because I know it won’t last.
The door opens before we knock. Her mom stands there, her expression carefully pleasant. She’s dressed like a woman who’s spent all day preparing a meal she’s not sure will end in dessert or disaster.
Doug and Carol Underwood are the kind of people who iron their napkins and call it a personality.
Proud, polite, and thoroughly middle-class—two decades of dinner-for-five and PTA meetings etched into their faces like fine print.
Too polite to say what they're really thinking, too cautious not to think it anyway.
Doug’s got that blue-collar stiffness—retired contractor or something like it. Still walks like he’s measuring floorboards, eyes always scanning for weak joints. Doesn’t talk much, but I catch the way he watches me like I’m a fuse he’s not sure has already been lit.
Carol’s softer on the outside, warm smile and tidy cardigan, but I’d bet good money she ran her household like a classroom—firm, sweet, but sharp enough to make a grown man feel like he forgot his homework.
She plays nice, asks about the coffee shop, compliments Makayla’s earrings, but she sees me.
Not the man I pretend to be—the one I am underneath. And she doesn’t flinch.
They love Jamie. That’s not surprising. She’s the golden ticket—poised, well-spoken, influential.
But the cracks show when she brings our family.
I can see it in the way Carol’s mouth tightens or how Doug suddenly needs to refill his drink.
They think Jamie’s reaction to her past is a bit dramatic.
I can hear it in Doug’s voice when he says, “Well, y’all are family now.
Time to move forward.” Translation: Let it go already.
They know I was behind what happened at the wedding. Of course, they do. But they also know I paid for Ethan and Jamie’s honeymoon, and that buys silence. Maybe even gratitude. In their minds, I evened the score—tragedy plus trip to Santorini equals no hard feelings.
Ethan can barely stand to be in the same room with me. Jamie’s jaw gets tight every time I speak. But his parents? They shake my hand, pour my coffee, and suggest we all just get along.
I like them. They know what I am.
“Makayla, baby,” Carol smiles, pulling her daughter into a one-armed hug. Her eyes flick over to me—quick but thorough.
“This is Cameron,” Makayla beams. “I’ve told you about him.”
“Yes,” Carol says softly. “You have.” Her smile never quite touches her eyes. “Come on in,” she says, stepping aside.
The scent of roasted chicken and rosemary fills the air. The house is warm and lived-in—family pictures lining the hallway, soft jazz playing from some hidden speaker. It’s charming. Intentional. And beneath it, sharp as a knife wrapped in velvet.
We step into the dining room, and there he is. Detective Ethan Underwood, starched and stiff in a collared shirt with rolled sleeves. He’s seated at the head of the table like he always is in the room—first to speak, last to back down.
Jamie’s beside him, already halfway through her first glass of wine. Her eyes lift to mine, flat and unreadable.
“Evening,” Ethan says, folding his napkin a little too precisely.
“Evening, Detective.” I smile. “Evening, sister.”
Jamie exhales. “This should be fun.” She gulps some more wine.
Doug appears from the kitchen, apron slung over his shoulder. He’s taller than Ethan and broader across the chest, but his energy is quieter. Calculated. He walks up to me with a practiced calm. “You’re the Page boy?”
“That’s me,” I nod. “Cameron.”
We shake hands. His grip is firm but not aggressive. Testing, not threatening. “Senator Page’s son,” he says with a flicker of recognition. “We saw each other briefly at the wedding.”
“I remember.” I nod.
He pauses. Studies me for a second longer than is polite. “Well, any friend of Makayla’s...” he starts.
“I’m a little more than a friend,” I offer casually.
He lifts an eyebrow and slowly nods. “I figured.” Makayla grins and kisses my cheek right there in front of God and everybody.
“Let’s eat,” Mrs. Underwood says quickly, gesturing to the table. “Before everything gets cold.”
We all sit. I take the seat directly across from Ethan.
Jamie doesn’t look at me, but she hasn’t stopped watching me either.
Dinner starts with small talk. Makayla carries most of it—telling stories about her new art collective and how she might be “accidentally” painting a mural on the back of a building that may or may not be owned by the city. Her parents chuckle. Ethan doesn’t.
“So, Cameron,” Mr. Underwood says between bites, “what is it you do now? Besides, uh... coffee shops?”
“Real estate,” I say easily. “I flipped a few buildings. Got a few more under development. I keep a low profile these days.”
“Not that low,” Jamie mutters into her wine.
“Jamie,” Mrs. Underwood warns.
“It’s okay,” I say smoothly. “I’m sure she means the news story. Everyone saw it.”
Ethan leans forward slightly. “You’re just full of surprises lately, Page.”
I hold his gaze and make sure I enunciate clearly. “Only for the people who’ve underestimated me.”
Makayla laughs, proud as hell. “That’s what I like about him.”
Her mom offers a tight smile. “And I’m sure there are many other things.”
“You know there are,” Makayla smirks, stabbing a piece of asparagus.
Then Mr. Underwood clears his throat. “So, how did you two meet?”
“Bookstore,” Makayla says at the same time I say, “Elevator.”
We glance at each other, grin. “Elevator first,” I clarify. “Bookstore second. She was buying three books she had no intention of reading.”
“They looked good on my coffee table,” she shrugged.
I shake my head and put on the biggest fake smile and chuckle. Not a laugh, because it’ll be obvious I’m full of shit. But a chuckle? A chuckle means I’m trying to lighten the mood. I’m trying to appear trustworthy. After all, Makayla confided in me that she never brought many boyfriends.
Now mom and dad have both of their children involved with one of the wealthiest and most powerful families. What are the odds? “She judged my music taste based on my Spotify playlist.”
Makayla rolls her eyes. “It was mostly Drake.”
“Not my proudest week.” I offer.
They laugh. Even Jamie cracks half a smile before catching herself. For a moment, it almost feels... normal. But I see it in their eyes. Every Underwood at this table—except Makayla—is waiting for the other shoe to drop.
And it will. But not tonight.
Tonight, I play nice. I make them laugh. I compliment the food and ask polite questions. Meanwhile, I’m sizing up every single family member like they're pawns in the game of my revenge.
~~~~~~
THE HOUSE IS MOSTLY cleared out. Dishes clink softly as Mrs. Underwood loads the dishwasher. Makayla is chatting with her dad in the hallway.
Jamie corners me outside. “Bold move,” she says, leaning against the counter with her arms folded.
“Thanks,” I sip a to-go coffee courtesy of Carol. “I wore my best sweater vest.”
Jamie’s not smiling. “I mean, Makayla bringing you here.”
I gave a half-shrug. “She wanted me to meet her family.”
She stands beside me. “She doesn’t know what you’re doing.”
I meet her gaze. “Don’t project your regret onto her, Jamie.”
Her eyes flash, just for a second. She doesn’t take the bait. “You’re playing a dangerous game.”
“I’m always playing a dangerous game,” I shrug.
Jamie steps in closer. “Do you even care what this does to her? You might think this is about Ethan, or me, or some half-assed vendetta—but Makayla? She’s collateral, Cam. She’s not built for the fallout you bring.”
“I know exactly what she’s built for,” I say. “And I never make moves I can’t protect.”
Jamie studies me like she used to when we were kids—trying to decide if I’m lying, or if the truth just sounds like a dare. “You say you’re protecting her,” she says, “but you couldn’t even protect the last woman who loved you.”
That one lands hard and I feel my stomach bottom out. I don’t flinch—but the silence between us goes cold. “Don’t talk about Taylor,” I say, quietly.
Jamie smiles at me. “She’s the only reason I haven’t gone to the press.”
“Do that,” I say. “And I’ll let everyone know how you can really afford that brownstone in Buckhead, your fancy YouTube channel with the state-of-the-art cameras, and that six-figure PR team.
” Her eyes narrow. “Oh, that’s right,” I murmur.
“No shame in off-the-books contributions—unless they’re tied to shell companies with Russian crypto roots. Which they are.”
I rise from my chair slowly, casually, like I’ve got all the time in the world and nothing to lose. “You go to the press, Jamie, and I’ll bury you in so much financial mud that Ethan won’t even be able to crawl out after you. You'll both drown in the very image you spent years polishing.”
Jamie doesn’t flinch. Her chin lifts, proud. Reckless. “I’ve survived worse.”
“Have you?” I tilt my head. “Because this time? You won’t walk away clean. And neither will your golden boy.”
We stare each other down, the air sharp with challenge. She’s breathing hard, trying not to show it. But I see the twitch in her jaw, the calculations firing in her brain. Jamie steps forward, just enough to enter my space. “You think I won’t? Try me.”
I smirk. “No, I think you will. And that’s what makes this so damn fun.
” Jamie’s lips part, ready to fire another threat, but I cut her off before she can draw breath.
“You want to talk about exposure?” I step closer, voice quiet, deadly.
“The only reason you had that nice wedding was because of me. The only reason your husband is still alive is because of me. And let’s be real—the only reason you even exist in this political fairytale is because I let you. ”
“Funny how you love reminding people what they owe you,” she snaps.
“But I wonder what Taylor would think if she knew your grand gesture came with strings made of blood money.” I narrow my eyes, but she’s not done.
“Does Taylor know you’re laundering money through the café, and that’s the real reason why you have cameras in there?
Let’s see how far your little empire stretches when it’s under federal investigation. ”
Jamie doesn’t flinch. She steps right into my space, chin high, eyes blazing. Her voice drops to a venom-laced whisper. “Or that the condo you gifted her is paid for by the same shell corporation?”
The words land like body shots, but I don’t show it. I don’t have to.
Jamie steps back, satisfied with herself, smug in that pretty little way of hers.
“Say what you want, Cameron,” she says. “You’ve got power, sure.
But you’re also sloppy. And if Taylor ever finds out the truth?
” She tilts her head, that fake-ass smile spreading.
“She’ll block you in real life, in spirit, and in the afterlife. Even your ghost will need clearance.”
I take a step toward her—measured, deliberate. There’s no heat in my voice when I speak. Just truth, sharpened like a blade. “You won’t tell Taylor,” I say calmly. “Because that would require admitting how much you know. And if you know that much, Jamie, what does that make you?”
She opens her mouth, but I lift a hand. Not done yet. “You see, you love walking that line—close enough to the fire to stay warm, but never quite close enough to burn. But if you ever repeat Taylor’s name in that tone, I will drag you into the flames with me.”
I close the distance until there’s barely space between us, voice low enough to bruise.
“You think I’d be the one who crumbles if the truth came out?
Sweetheart, I am the truth. Taylor already left me.
That’s heartbreak. But you?” I look her dead in the eyes.
“You lose your husband. Your career. Your shiny reputation. Your safety net.” I smirk.
“You’d have nothing left but a headline and a prayer. ”
Her breath hitches—just for a second. I let the silence stretch, just long enough for her to think she’s rattled me.
Then I lean forward, steepling my fingers, tone smooth and sharp like broken glass in honey.
“Don’t mistake your proximity to power for immunity from consequence,” I add.
“Next time you want to threaten me, remember: I don’t bluff. I bury.”
She tries to hold my stare. But I see it—that flicker of something behind her eyes. Recognition. Resentment. Fear.
“I want you to think about that every time you run your mouth about going to the press,” I go on, each word a nail in the coffin.
“If I can control how happy your life is, I can also control how much you suffer if you ever try to cross me.” Her jaw tightens, but she doesn’t speak.
“So go ahead, Jamie. Make that call. Burn it all down. But understand something—when the ashes settle, you won’t be the survivor. You’ll be the lesson.”
We stare each other down. Same blood, different codes. Finally, Jamie sighs, stepping back. “You want revenge so badly, you’re willing to salt the earth and dance in it. But don’t act surprised when nothing grows back.”
“I don’t need anything to grow,” I say. “I just need the right people to fall.”
She looks at me, eyes tired now. “I miss the version of you that cared about more than power.”
I give a tired shrug. “I miss the version of you that wasn’t married to a cop.”
Jamie nods once, like we’re finally telling the truth. Then she walks away.