Chapter 15
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
DAPHNE
Roopa’s ebony hair pops up over the wall of my cubicle. She flashes her bright smile when I’m mid-sip into my second cup of coffee.
“Monica sent me for the cancellation confirmations for Paul’s Thailand trip?”
“Monica couldn’t email me? Or message me? Or call me?” Seriously, she might be the Chief of Staff for recently deceased Senator Furt, but she doesn’t need to treat us underlings like carrier pigeons.
Roopa’s frustrated look mirrors mine. “I say we buy her two metal cans and a piece of string for her birthday. Think she’ll get the hint?”
Monica might have the managerial capabilities of a seagull, but she’s smart and has connections sprinkled across the DMV.
She’s been in charge since Paul’s death two weeks ago until another senator steps in.
Honestly, I just do what she wants. I don’t care about the work here, but it’s nice having health insurance and food in the fridge.
I need time to save. My savings is slowly building, and soon I’ll have enough to move out and put down a deposit on my own place. I’ll find work far away from D.C. and do something better. I don’t know what, but anything has to be better than being a senator’s whipping girl. I mean scheduler.
“What did you think of Paul’s funeral?” I ask. “It was overkill.”
“A three-hour funeral? You’d have thought someone royal died. Not a senator,” Roopa says. “Did you hear he was murdered?”
Oh, I heard. Tristan called me the day after Furt’s body was found to tell me he killed my boss. He was the President’s whip after all. And I am never going to look at Operation the same way again.
Obviously, I told no one. My lips metaphorically remain sealed. I don’t think Tristan would kill me, but I won’t incriminate myself. And the thought of him rotting in a jail cell when Brent and men like him are still breathing doesn’t sit right in my chest.
I should feel guilty. Like, my brain is telling me that what Tristan did was wrong. Immoral. Morally black. Yet it doesn’t feel wrong. No, it feels like there’s a little more balance in the world.
“I heard there were rumors of foul play,” I say to Roopa and keep that trained neutral expression on my face.
The one I perfected as a kid. Standing on stage in front of cameras while old men gave boring speeches was a formative part of my childhood.
I can fake smile, fake laugh, and fake orgasm with the best of them.
I never could master the fake tears, though.
Those were Paige’s specialty. Yet another way my dead sister will always be better than me.
“Mom’s friends with the Chief of Police,” Roopa leans in to make sure no one overhears. “They think it’s that serial killer. American Guy Fawkes. The crazy guy who killed Representative McArthur last month.”
My lips pop open in fake shock. “No!”
Roopa’s eyes gleam with excitement. “Yes!”
“Has the FBI figured out who he is?” Worry swirls in my belly like a thunderous storm cloud. Did Tristan leave something behind? Was he sloppy?
Roopa shakes her head. “No, it’s like the man’s a ghost.”
The memory of Tristan in a ghost face mask in his basement brings a laugh up, but I choke it back down and fake cough. I take a sip from my water bottle as I fake cough again.
Roopa continues. “Apparently, he’s trying to stop the Bradshaw Bill. He left the bill on Furt’s kitchen counter. The Committee’s getting scared.”
“The Committee?” I ask, still trying to process.
“Yeah, the Senate Committee that’s reviewing the bill. They’re convening soon. Paul was supposed to be there as a Member, but…” She doesn’t finish. Roopa is Paul’s Legislative Assistant in the healthcare space. Of course, she’d be across the Committee meetings and the bills being shuffled around.
“So, the bill might pass?” My stomach tightens at the thought.
“Maybe. The Committee convenes next Thursday to decide if the Senate will vote on the bill. And it looks like they’ll have a majority. If it passes the Senate, it goes to your dad before the end of September.”
“In time for the election in November.” Shit. Since when do bills move this quickly? Furt must have kissed a lot of Congressional ass to push it through.
“Monica’s coming.” Roopa dashes off.
Monica’s heels stop clacking as they halt beside my desk. “Daphne.” Monica’s voice cracks on my name before her hollow cheeks huff, her face flushed red. Glossy brown eyes glare down at me as her tight bun whips from side to side, and she shakes her head at me. “My office. Now.”
Monica can’t even string a sentence together? Shit, this is bad.
I fight the urge to ask what’s wrong as I bolt up from my desk and scurry behind her. We make our way through the wing of offices larger than my first college dorm.
“Shut the door,” Monica snaps as we wind into her office with the title “Chief of Staff” mounted on a gold plaque on the door.
I obey like the good subservient puppy dog I am. Seriously, I can only hope to train Hawkeye as well as Monica and Furt trained me. Head down. Work until you’re sweating, bleeding, or both. Long hours. Be there before they arrive in the morning and stay until they go home.
Monica retreats to her desk and sits, the leather creaking loudly in the silence.
“Sit.”
Woof!
I shuffle over to one of the acrylic chairs across from her.
Her eyes narrow into slits. Anger exudes from her like Chernobyl-level radiation. “What’s my one rule about working here?” she asks.
One rule? Did she mean one thousand rules?
I don’t know how to answer that, so I shrug. Better to look apathetic than say the wrong thing.
“Leave your personal life at the door,” she says.
Huh, that’s one I hadn’t heard before. Maybe it was sandwiched between her other rules.
From no casual Fridays—we’re supposed to be professional at all times—to only Monica is trusted to use the postage machine.
She sees all outgoing correspondence and inspects it with a fine-toothed comb to catch one of us screwing up.
She loved tattle-tailing to Paul. I’m sure whichever lucky senator replaces him will get an earful from her about who really runs this place.
Monica’s hungry smile resembles shark teeth.
“Imagine my surprise when the President called me this morning. He asked me for a favor and wanted me to fire his daughter to prove a point.”
Dad did what?
“Excuse me?” The words slip off my tongue like slime as bile coats my throat. No, Dad wouldn’t…
Oh, he would. The nagging voice in the back of my mind taunts me.
“The President of the United States wants me to fire you, Daphne.” Monica scrunches her thin brows so tight that her pointed nose lifts in disgust. “I don’t know what is going on between you and your dad.
I don’t give a shit. What I do know is I’m not about to say no to the most powerful man in the country. ”
She wouldn’t… would she? “But, you can’t. Monica, that’s… wrongful termination.” Somehow, my brain finds those words despite the haze clouding my mind.
“You think I can’t?” Monica hisses. “Daphne, I can find reasons. Typos. Missed calendar entries. Discrepancies on travel invoices. Anything I can scrape up that you so much as looked at, I will pin on you and your incompetence. I will forge whatever bullshit documents I need to if it means getting Grover fucking Fox off my back. I will not say no to the President.”
“So, you’re just going to fire me? No warning?”
“Correct.” Monica’s nose settles as her lips press in a firm line. “You were a good scheduler. I’ll give you a reference if you leave quietly. Leave your laptop. You can hand over your badge now.” She holds out her hand.
I hand it over, my smiling picture gazing up at me from Monica’s manicured clutches. Younger eyes still full of hope that maybe this job won’t be so bad.
With a dismissive wave of her hand, Monica silently orders me to leave.
I get up on shaky legs, still in a state of shock. No job means no money. Not speaking to Brent means my parents cutting me off, which means no money.
Disbelief hollows my stomach like bugs gnawing away at a tree trunk.
Dad won.
I’m going to have to see Brent again.
Tristan
Your location says you’re home early. Are you sick?
Yeah, okay. It’s weird that he’s following my location when I never shared it with him, but it’s sweet that he cares enough to check on me. And that he knows I'm home at one o’clock isn’t normal.
Daphne
Not sick. Unemployed.
In seconds, my burner phone’s ringing and Tristan’s name flashes on my screen. I don’t want to talk to anyone, but my fingers decide for me and tap the answer button.
“Hello?”
“Are you okay?” Tristan’s gravely voice grounds me.
He doesn’t ask, ‘What happened?’ or ‘What’s wrong?’ or Mom’s favorite line, ‘What did you do?’ God, I could hug this man for not saying those words to me right now. If he did, my spirit might break.
“I’m not okay.” My voice is weak, and I lean into the weakness.
I don’t have the strength to be tough right now.
I want to cry, soak in a bubble bath, curl up under a fluffy blanket, and let the grief take over today.
I’ve lost my job, my income, and the last shred of respect I may have had for my father.
That’s a lot to lose in one morning.
“What can I do to help?” he asks.
My heart pinches. “I don’t know.” The crack in my voice gives me away before a sob I can’t contain bursts from my throat.
“Do you want me to come over?”
Yes… no… I don’t know.
Every cell in my body tingles at the thought of touching him, of curling up on the couch on someone’s chest and having a good cry while they hold me. Or a hard fuck while they hold me down.
But his masks… I can’t stomach the thought of not looking into his stunning mismatched eyes, like they reveal two different parts of him—the kind man who stayed overnight to find the person leaving me death threats, and the mildly sadistic Pepsi-loving assassin.
“Will you wear a mask?”
His long pause gives me hope until he says, “Yes.”
And just like that, I have my answer. “I’ll be fine alone.”
Of course I will. I’ve been alone my entire life.
Just because you grew up in a house with parents doesn’t mean you’re not alone.
Just because you had friends doesn’t mean they wanted to be around you—more like their parents made them spend time with the fat girl in class so they could get in Dad’s good graces.
Just because you had a sister doesn’t mean you loved each other. No, I’m used to being alone.
“I’m not convinced,” Tristan says.
“Am I supposed to convince you I’m fine? I don’t have the mental bandwidth right now.”
“I’m not convinced you want to be alone. How about we negotiate?”
“What are we negotiating?” I have to admit, I’m intrigued.
“I’ll order us dinner. We’ll video call. Talk. Eat. Hell, turn the phone around, and we can watch a movie together.” Then his voice drops. “I don’t like the thought of you being alone tonight.”
Damnit, why is it the unhinged men who always know exactly what to say?
“I like your terms,” I start. “Indian for dinner. I pick the movie.”
Tristan groans. “Fine, but please no horror movies. I’ve seen your Netflix watch list.” He pauses. “Can I tell you a secret?”
“Like your full name?” I’d probably have better luck getting my old job back, but if you don’t ask, the answer’s always going to be no.
“Touché. But no. I’m still scared of horror movies. Anything with gore or jump scares. Saw made me puke, and Chucky gave me nightmares.”
Him? Afraid? The man has invented some creative ways of killing people over the years. “Really?” When he doesn’t say anything, I wonder if maybe he’s embarrassed. And that’s… charming.
“You know,” I say, “I think Chucky scared us all as kids.”
“I was twenty-five.”
A full belly laugh breaks apart the sadness that had enveloped me all day, like that first glimpse of sunshine after a rainstorm.
“The idea of a possessed doll is pretty creepy.”
Tristan’s chuckles vibrate through the speaker. “You don’t need to placate me. I know I’m a wuss.”
“I’m not sure that’s true, given your hobbies.” I pause. “What do you even do for work anyway?” After weeks of texts and the odd phone call asking about senator schedules and the Vice President’s bowling league, I never asked him simple questions. The ones everyone asks.
And yet, our contact has never been awkward. Not like sitting across from boring dates and dull politicians who only make polite small talk because of who my father is.
Tristan sighs heavily, like he’s about to admit that he works in a call center, or sells insurance, or drives a manure truck. Something normal against the wild man I’ve come to know over the past few weeks. “Let’s just say I made a smart investment when I was young and it’s still paying dividends.”
“That’s not vague at all. What, did you invest in crypto or something?” I tease.
“Yeah. Crypto.”
Oh God, is he a crypto bro? That’s worse than the whole Pepsi-stalker-killer thing.
“I’m scared to ask anything else. I’ve met people who were obsessed with crypto.”
“I’m not obsessed. I don’t invest in it anymore.
I learned about it when it was only pennies per coin.
The idea of internet-Monopoly-money sounded cool, so I put some of my allowance into it.
It kept growing, so I kept investing until it was a couple bucks per coin.
At that point, I needed any money I had to take care of my family.
I waited, sold most of my investment, and diversified my portfolio. I live comfortably off the interest.”
Portfolio? Tristan doesn’t strike me as an I-have-an-investment-portfolio kind of guy. If anything, he’d hate people who own investment portfolios.
“So,” Tristan’s voice brightens, and I can hear him smile through the phone to change the subject. “Which Indian place are you in the mood for? And what’s your usual order?”
“Someone’s slacking on his research,” I tease. “I’ll text you my order. But I have some news you’ll want to hear.” I sit up straighter as Hawkeye yawns at my feet on the other end of the couch. “It’s about the Senate Committee. I know what’s happening with the Bradshaw Bill.”