Chapter 27
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
TRISTAN
I bought the damn Porsche. Rolling up to the White House as an invited guest means doing things legally—no stolen cars.
I know I’ve been background checked within an inch of my life by the Secret Service if I’m on the guest list with celebrities, politicians, and the Prime Minister of Australia.
Somehow, I—a lowlife from the Baltimore streets—scored an invite to a State Dinner. Lucky me.
Daphne’s nearly vibrating in the passenger seat. Her wispy silver gown glints in the lawn’s floodlights as we slowly creep up the driveway. Her hair cascades over her shoulder in a curtain of soft waves, like a 1950s pin-up girl.
“So, after the photo on the steps, the guests arrive,” she informs me. “They’ll call out our names. Follow my lead. We walk into the ballroom and smile at some of the cameras. If they ask questions, I’ll answer them.”
“Good.” I wouldn’t know what to say. I get camera-shy.
“Once we’re inside, we’ll have assigned seats. Mom wouldn’t tell me who we’re sitting with. Dad and the Prime Minister will make speeches. We’ll eat, mingle enough for appearances, then get the hell out of there.”
“Sounds boring.”
“It’s even more boring than it sounds.”
I groan as we stop in line, waiting for the valets to direct the other cars in front of us. “Please tell me it’s an open bar.”
“Always,” Daphne says. “Dad doesn’t skimp on top-shelf liquor.”
That’s a silver lining, I guess. “Well, drinking with my own tax dollars doesn’t sound too bad.”
“I promise, dessert will be worth it.”
I settle my hand on Daphne’s thigh, the sparkly fabric scratchy under my palm. “What dessert do I get to have after dinner?”
“Me.” Her teasing smile sends blood rushing to my cock.
She spreads her legs beneath her gown, her knees widening as my fingertips skate along her inner thighs.
“There are cameras everywhere. Giving me an erection in a penguin suit isn’t the best idea, Princess.” I readjust my pre-tied bowtie and check myself in the rearview mirror. I don’t know how to tie one of the damn things, so I had to buy a clip-on. It’s like I’m a child imitating an adult.
The other fancy cars ahead of us finally move.
“Shit.” I inch forward as a valet hustles over to my door, another to Daphne’s.
She snaps her legs together before the doors open.
“Thank you,” I offer a smile to the valet, who nods with a starchy smile of his own as he slips into the Porsche. Once Daphne’s escorted out, the valet pulls the car away. I offer her my arm and guide us up the stairs and inside the White House.
It’s almost impossible to be a kid in Baltimore without going to D.C.
for a field trip at some point. I remember going on a guided tour in third grade.
The inside of the place looked like what I’d imagine in a castle—like the First Family were secretly royalty, with so many things trimmed in gold.
And everything looked antique. I remember being told repeatedly by Mrs. Williams not to touch anything, which drove that point home.
If only little starry-eyed Tristan knew what he would grow up to be someday. But then again, starry-eyed Tristan still had his Dad. He had hope. He didn’t know that the secret royalty he admired that day was corrupt to the marrow of their bones.
Daphne and I linger around the edges of the crowd as photographs are snapped with her parents and the Australian Prime Minister.
This section of the White House certainly wasn’t part of the school tour.
After about twenty minutes of keeping my face neutral and my eyes off Daphne’s curves in the designer ballgown I insisted on buying her, slowly, we all made our way inside.
One by one, couples are announced like it’s an episode of that Bridgerton show Tessa tried to get me to watch.
I’m half expecting the MC to slip and call someone a Duke or a Viscount—whatever that is.
“First Daughter, Miss Daphne Fox, and Mister Tristan Sinclair.” Our names echo through a speaker as a row of people with cameras congregate behind a red velvet rope. Is this what it’s like for celebrities? Nothing but a cheap rope to keep the peasants away.
It’s fucking embarrassing.
But I smile and follow Daphne’s pace as we slowly make our way into the ballroom for dinner.
“The hard part’s over,” she whispers softly enough for only me to hear over the string quartet.
For some reason, I don’t believe her. “Where’s the bar?”
Abercrombie isn’t as bad as I thought he would be. Sure, Connor McArthur is a typical rich brat who’s destined to be one of the good ole’ boys of Capitol Hill. But for a prick, he’s not what I assumed he’d be when I saw him with Daphne a few months ago.
“The food they served us in the Harvard cafeterias was garbage compared to this.” Connor scoops another piece of opera cake onto his fork.
Daphne was right. The dessert made this whole ordeal worth it. If only I could take some home to lick off her later.
“The pastry chefs here are incredible,” Daphne says. “I snuck into the kitchens once, and Paula taught me how to make meringue cookies.”
“I had a pastry chef too,” I tell them. “Her name was Little Debbie.”
Daphne and a couple of others at our table laugh, but Connor looks confused. Don’t tell me the poor guy’s never had a Cosmic Brownie? A Zebra Cake? Even a simple Swiss Roll?
I might send him a box for Christmas.
He turns towards his date, who’s giggling at everything any man at the table says. She’s at least a bottle of Dom Perignon deep at this point, and I don’t know how she’s going to be able to stand once dancing starts.
Every other man at this table is the child of a senator, congressman, or celebrity who’s never known a hard day’s work.
All of them are about my age. And none of them are engaged or married.
It’s like Mrs. Fox knew exactly who to arrange with Daphne—eligible, rich men born into the same lifestyle as her.
And Daphne’s not falling for it.
She rests her hand on my knee under the table and gives it a squeeze.
My cock stirs at her touch, and damnit, why don’t they make tuxedo fabric that makes an erection less obvious?
I feel like a damn teenager with her beside me in that dress.
“I love a man with a good sense of humor,” she says to me, like she doesn’t care if anyone at the table overhears her.
“It’s hard to have a sense of humor,” says Miles, the son of a retired Formula One driver who wasn’t good enough to make it to the big leagues himself.
Daddy’s only a multi-millionaire, so he isn’t rich enough to buy Miles a seat on a team.
Talk about a tragic backstory. “Everything is so politically correct these days.”
Oh boy. Here we go. Let me guess. Miles is upset that he can’t freely say the N-word or comment on an underage girl’s body. Every muscle in my tenses, and I swear, it’s a shame they took away the knives at the table. A dessert spoon just won’t do.
“Let’s get a drink,” Daphne suggests, and I’m ready to exit this conversation.
“I could use a gin and tonic,” Miles calls out to me like I’m a fucking waiter.
“Good for you.” I stop the words ‘go get one yourself, you spoiled dickhead’ from leaving my mouth. Settling my hand on the small of Daphne’s back, I guide her away from the group of twenty-and-thirty-somethings who think life is a never-ending frat party.
“God, I hate these things,” Daphne mutters as we beeline to one of the three bars around the ballroom.
“I can see why.”
“This is my last one,” she says. “After this, I’m done. Dad gets one rally out of me, then I’m finished.”
“I’m proud of you for standing up to them,” I tell her, my voice hushed, as the Governor of Tennessee and his wife wobble past us with double scotches in hand.
Daphne’s brilliant blue eyes sparkle in the chandelier lights, and her smile brightens the entire fucking room before we reach the bar.
“What can I get for you?” The breathless bartender asks.
“Champagne,” she says.
“Two, please,” I add.
As the bartender grabs a bottle of Dom, I pull out a hundred-dollar bill from my wallet and slip it into the tip jar when he turns his back.
It’s practically empty, with a couple of ones and fives tossed in like participation trophies.
Congratulations, you have a job that doesn’t pay you a livable wage.
Here’s something extra to make me look generous, you mere servant.
“I had a lot of jobs after Dad died,” I tell Daphne. “I worked for a caterer for a couple of years when it was wedding season or when they had Christmas parties. It’s tougher than it looks.”
Her eyes brighten from this nugget of information. “You were a caterer?”
“More like a waiter,” I tell her as the bartender sets two champagne flutes onto the counter before hurrying off to assist the next guest.
Daphne retrieves her glass, her nails sparkling with silver glitter flecks as she raises it to her lips. “I bet you looked cute in a uniform.” She eyes the catering staff in button-up black shirts, not too dissimilar to the one I wore at the gender reveal party.
Before I can say anything, the President and First Lady make their way over to us.
“Hello, Daphne.” Grover leans in to press a kiss to his daughter’s cheek as Grace Fox lingers behind, offering a warm smile that contrasts her icy glare.
“You look lovely tonight, Daphne,” she says. Her voice is pumped full of more artificial sweetness than a can of Diet Coke.
“Thanks, Mom,” Daphne responds with a practiced smile. After all, there are guests, and cameras, and everyone has the latest iPhone with excellent camera quality. Definitely not the place to start a scene.
“You must be Tristan.” Grover offers me his beefy hand, and I shake it with a firm grip, like Dad taught me. I never thought I’d shake hands with the President of the United States. And honestly, I couldn’t give less of a fuck.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. President.”
I’m waiting for the falsely nice ‘Oh please, son. Call me Grover. You’re practically part of the family now.’
But before Grover speaks, Grace inserts herself. “It’s nice to see you again, Tristan. I do hope the atmosphere is up to your standards.” Her eyes squint, and the sarcasm drips off her tongue like acid rain.
“It’s a lovely function.” I beam a forced smile at her.
“Mr. President, I’m so sorry to hear about the Committee members.
Such a bizarre accident.” I clutch my champagne flute tightly around the stem.
God, how easy would it be to break the fragile glass and jam the broken stem right through his eye and end it all right here and now?
Grover’s eyes darken as my words catch him off guard. Or maybe it’s because an underling is speaking first.
“Terrible tragedy,” Grover says. “I knew some of them well. And their families. But new members will be selected next week. There are too many important items on the agenda, and unfortunately, Washington doesn’t have the luxury of time, even if it’s to grieve.”
What. The. Fuck. He’s backfilling those roles? Are the ashes of their corpses even cold yet?
“Daphne,” Grover faces his daughter head-on, quietly dismissing Grace and me from the conversation. “How’s your security detail? Have there been any new incidents?” He’s talking about his daughter’s safety like he’s asking if the traffic was alright on the drive over—useless small talk.
“It’s been fine, Dad,” she says with a starchy smile. “There haven’t been any new incidents.”
Grover nods. “Good. I told you that you didn’t need extra detail. In fact, maybe we should discuss pulling back your security detail further. Wouldn’t want to waste perfectly good taxpayer dollars on—”
“No,” I snap.
The Foxs’ heads whip in my direction. Grace and Daphne’s eyes widen, but Grover’s narrow in challenge.
“I beg your pardon?” Grover asks.
“Your daughter’s life is still in danger, and you’re threatening to abandon her when she needs it most. And after all of those golf trips you take, you’re going to use taxpayer dollars as your excuse?
” I take a step closer to the President of the United States—one of the most powerful men in the world—and tell him, “Go fuck yourself, Grover.”
Slamming my champagne back on the bar, I grab Daphne’s hand. “Let’s go.”
She only nods, her eyes still wide in shock as she settles her glass down and trails behind me.
We hurry out to the front, where the valets are standing around in a circle, gossiping about everyone in the room, shooting the shit.
“Hey, guys,” I wave.
Immediately, they freeze.
I’m not one of them. Tonight, I’m the enemy. The rich, spoiled asshole who ate food that’s worth more than what they earn in a week. Fancy wagyu flown in from Japan. Special puff-pastry appetizers inspired by Australian pub food. Fucking opera cake. Even the name is pretentious.
“Your ticket, sir?” one of them asks.
“Before you get it,” I dig into my pocket for my wallet and retrieve the wad of hundreds. “These are for you.” I had a crisp hundred-dollar note for each of them. “I’m sure the rest of the pricks in there don’t tip.”
“Thank you, sir.” Some of them stuff a bill in their pockets while others go wide-eyed or offer a polite smile.
I feel like a dickhead. Like a social media influencer who gives a homeless person food but shoves a camera in their face to show the world that they’re a good person.
“Your ticket?” the man repeats as he pockets his tip with a polite but awkward smile.
I hand the slip of paper to the valet, who literally runs off. In minutes, the Porsche pulls up to the front of the White House, and the valet opens the driver’s door before dashing around to open Daphne’s as well.
I walk Daphne around to the other side of the car and offer her a hand as she slips into the passenger seat. She checks that all of the fabric of her sparkly dress is inside before I close the door.
I make the mistake of glancing up. The group of valets is talking to one another, their eyes flicking to me like I’m an animal in a zoo. Yep, I’m one of the rich pricks tonight. Guilt wads like wet paper towels in my stomach as I pull away.
I’m not one of them.
But even with all my money, I’m not Daphne’s equal in this world.
I didn’t get the fancy education, the entries to country clubs, the handshakes of the top one percent who can grease palms, stab backs, and break the law without consequence.
Even after all my work, I’m still the aimless man hiding behind another mask.