Chapter 2 Mara
TWO
MARA
Istand in the foyer of Chase’s penthouse apartment before his hand finally releases my elbow. Behind us, the door locks with an electronic beep.
“I had the staff stock the bathroom with your favorite products.”
“How thoughtful,” I manage, my voice flat.
He studies me for a moment. “You’re angry.”
“I’m exhausted.”
“You’re angry,” he repeats. “But you’ll get over it. Once you understand that this is for the best, for both of us, you’ll see that your father made the right choice.”
My father. Not our fathers, not the Syndicate, not even we. Just my father. As if Clark Black orchestrated this entire nightmare on his own. As if Chase is just an innocent bystander, caught up in someone else’s machinations.
“I’d like to go to my room now.”
“Of course.” He gestures down the hallway. “I’ll have some food brought up in an hour. We should eat together, start establishing routines—”
“I’m not hungry.”
His hand catches my wrist. “I know tonight was overwhelming—the announcement, the media, leaving your… friends. But we’re going to get through this, together. You just need time to adjust.”
Friends. The word is a slap, reducing Dredyn, Talon, and Jasper to casual acquaintances instead of the men who own pieces of my soul.
“Time. Right. How much time do I have before the wedding?”
“We haven’t set a date yet. Your father thinks a summer ceremony would be—”
I pull my wrist free. “Good night, Chase.”
I don’t wait for his response, just turn and walk down the hallway on legs that threaten to buckle with every step.
The bedroom has cream walls, designer furniture, and a king-sized bed with too many decorative pillows. There’s even a vase of fresh white roses on the nightstand, because of course there is.
I close the door and lean against it, finally allowing my carefully constructed mask to crack. My hands shake as I reach up to remove the diamond earrings my mother insisted I wear tonight. They’re worth more than most people make in a year.
I drop them on the dresser.
The dress comes next. I peel it off like shedding skin, letting the fabric pool on the floor. Underneath, I’m wearing the black lace set that Talon picked out three weeks ago, back when I still thought I had choices.
Back when I still thought I could be theirs.
You are still theirs. Distance doesn’t change that.
But does it matter what I am if I’m locked in a gilded cage?
I move to the window, pressing my palm against the glass. Twenty stories below, the city sparkles with lights and traffic and people who have no idea that the President-elect’s daughter is trapped in her own engagement.
Slowly, I turn in a circle, scanning the room with new eyes. There—another light. This one, hidden in the bookshelf. And there, in the decorative mirror frame, and in the smoke detector that’s positioned oddly close to the bed.
Four cameras.
Chase is watching me. Or having me watched, which is somehow worse.
I move to the bathroom—it’s the only room without obvious camera placement—and I turn on the shower, letting the water run hot and loud, creating a wall of white noise.
Then, I sit on the closed toilet lid and let myself break.
The sobs come quietly at first, then harder, until I’m shaking with the force of them. I press a towel to my face to muffle the sounds, not wanting to give whoever’s monitoring the audio feeds the satisfaction of hearing me fall apart.
I cry for the freedom I just lost. For the boys who tried to save me and couldn’t. For Evangeline, who probably sat in a room like this once, making plans that ended with her body in the catacombs.
I cry until there’s nothing left. Until the tears dry up and I’m hollow and raw and strangely clear-headed.
Okay, I think, wiping my face with the towel. Okay. You’re not dead yet. You’re not Evangeline. You still have options, even if they’re all terrible.
ONE MONTH LATER
There’s a knock at my door moments before one of my newly appointed guards opens the bedroom door. “It’s time for your session,” he says, not even pretending to make eye contact before walking away, leaving the door open.
In Chase’s office down the hall, there’s a laptop waiting on his desk.
“Sit,” the guard instructs.
I sit. Moments later, the screen flickers on and Dr. Lena Menken appears on the screen. She’s forty-ish, with a sleek brunette bob and glasses with clear frames.
“Good morning, Mara,” she says warmly, eyes scanning my posture before my face. “Thank you for taking the time to meet with me.”
Like I had a choice.
“Good morning,” I murmur.
Her background is blurred, probably some clinic in Georgetown or maybe a fake office filter. Doesn’t matter. She flips through something off-screen. “I understand we’ve had a... turbulent few months.”
“Yeah,” I say. “Guess you could say that.”
She launches into soft probing questions. How am I sleeping? Do I feel safe? Any intrusive thoughts? Am I adjusting well to the increased attention? I answer all of her questions from the well-rehearsed script inside my head.
The entire time, I feel watched. Not just by her, or the guards, but I know Chase has cameras everywhere.
Dr. Menken taps something on her keyboard. “I’ll recommend continuing weekly sessions through the end of inauguration. After that, we can reevaluate. Would video calls like this work for you, or would you prefer something in person?”
I shrug. “This is fine.”
Maybe I should probe her again about the medications that she prescribed me. Last time I asked her she acted like I was crazy, saying that she hadn’t prescribed me anything.
But every morning, I’m given a tiny white pill with my breakfast. I’ve never swallowed one; I’ve been tucking them under my tongue and spitting them into a cloth napkin like a magician’s trick.
Whatever it is they’re trying to fix, it’s not broken.
The session ends with her soft voice promising continued support—whatever I need, blah blah. The screen goes black.
I don’t move for a full minute.
Let them think I’m docile.
Let them keep feeding me lies.
Eventually, I’ll make them choke on it.
Before I can get up and lock myself back in my bedroom, Chase walks in, shirtless, a towel slung around his neck, fresh from his morning workout.
His chest glistens faintly with sweat, his hair damp and tousled.
Regardless of my distaste for him, he isn’t bad to look at.
He smiles when he sees me still at his desk.
“Therapy go well?” he asks, grabbing a glass from the minibar and filling it with water.
“Fine,” I say, eyes fixed on the screen that’s already gone black.
He crosses the room, setting the glass down beside me. His fingers trail across the top of my shoulder, light and possessive. I go rigid under the touch.
He notices, and his smile flickers, just slightly. “Mara.”
“I’m fine,” I repeat, keeping my voice even.
He moves behind me, hands brushing the tops of my arms. “You’ve been so good lately. I know this isn’t easy, but it’ll get better. You’ll get used to this.”
I say nothing.
His hands pause. “Say something.”
“I said I’m fine,” I snap, then instantly regret the edge in my voice.
There’s a shift. The warmth in him curdles.
“Watch your tone.” He folds his arms. The muscles in his forearms twitch, like he’s barely containing the urge to grab me. “I’ve done nothing but protect you. Do you understand what I’ve kept at bay for you? What I’ve cleaned up? You’re still breathing because of me.”
I almost laugh.
“Those ‘precious boys’ you think you’re protecting?” I lift my eyes to meet his. “They don’t need protection. Certainly not from you.”
I stand. “I need a shower.”
He steps into my path. “Mara.”
My name is a warning now. Soft, sharp, and calculated.
“I said I need a shower.”
We stare at each other for one second too long.
He finally steps aside, but his voice follows me out of the room.
“You don’t want to make me remind you what’s at stake.”
I pause at the threshold. “I don’t need reminding,” I say, and head for the bathroom.
I twist the lock. Not that it matters—he has the override codes. And it’s not fear that makes my hands shake as I peel off the robe, it’s fury. Fury at him, at myself, at the cameras that might be watching me even in here.
I turn the faucet all the way to cold.
Let the water numb me before I burn the whole thing down.
After my shower, I get dressed and head to the living room only to find my mother sifting through papers with her assistant, Savannah. Her coffee is steaming in one hand while her iPad is in her lap, as she scrolls through a calendar.
“Oh good!” Savannah chirps and a part of me dies inside.
I smile back, stiff as a statue, letting the water from my damp hair drip on the rug. I hadn’t dried off completely, but that’s fine. It’s not like I have anywhere to be except here.
My mother barely acknowledges me, but Savannah is enough to fill the silence. She taps the iPad. “We have a lot to go over!” She scrolls as I sit down across from them on another sofa and cross my legs.
“Let’s see... In two weeks you have that major television interview, then a photoshoot with Chase at the botanical gardens.
Next weekend is the charity brunch downtown.
And we have a dress fitting—with press access—in ten days.
After that, the children’s hospital visit.
I will send this all to your calendar as well—”
“I—” I manage, trying to force some spine into my voice. “I... wait. What about my classes? Did we... finalize the plan to let me keep going with the semester? My professors put me on remote learning for safety with all the murders. Will I even be able to do my midterms?”
Savannah’s forehead creases the tiniest bit as she drinks her coffee with a measured sip. “Mara, darling, we talked about this. Your studies can wait. America needs to believe you’re stable. Let’s not split your focus.”
My father spent the last month spinning my trauma into tabloid fodder.
“Promiscuous behavior consistent with untreated bipolar disorder.”