Chapter 41
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
DAPHNE
I wouldn’t say I’ve been hiding since Dad’s death, but for the past two weeks after his funeral, I’ve spent every spare minute either at the shelter or filming.
Dogs and fictional characters are better than people.
People want a comment from me, a tear-filled picture, something to smear in headlines for clicks.
So, I give them nothing.
I don’t worry about watching my face when I’m in public.
I don’t watch my face while I film content.
And I don’t have to watch my face—or my back—at my therapist’s office.
What started out as a good idea for me to unpack my mommy issues has become a twice-a-week necessity.
Sorting through my complex feelings about Dad’s death and my minefield of a relationship with Mom has me booking in double-length sessions.
Getting everything off my chest helps. It’s like these sessions put my world into a new perspective. Already, I can see growth in how I’ve handled my relationship with Mom and her grief. She lost her perfect daughter and her husband, so she’s lost her world.
I’ve never felt like part of her world, more like one of her accessories: an out-of-season scarf or a tacky Juicy Couture purse from her modeling days.
At Dad’s funeral, Mom and I kept a polite distance. Tristan stood beside me, my hand in his as he gave it small squeezes throughout the service. I think he spent more time than the Secret Service scanning our surroundings after what had happened.
With him around, I feel safe. Like, for now, my world’s at peace. And with my family out of the spotlight since the Vice President stepped in to fill Dad’s shoes, I can slip into political anonymity.
I don’t have to be the First Daughter. This chapter in my life is about Daphne, the book influencer. Well, still Maggie. I love the wigs and makeup, the anonymity of it all. I can read and talk about stories and enjoy my work. I can hoard books like a happy little book dragon and keep my peace.
With a book in hand, I head downstairs. “Why are you watching the news?” I groan as I settle onto the couch beside Tristan.
I cuddle up on the couch under the blanket with him. His arm scoops me in closer, and his smoky bourbon cologne envelopes me, mixing with a bucket of buttery popcorn on the coffee table. This is heaven.
Apart from the news playing in the background. That’s a buzzkill that’s worse than the batteries in your vibrator dying when you’re close.
“I like to stay informed,” he says as he offers me the first bit of popcorn.
“I mean, why are you watching it on the TV? Why aren’t you doomscrolling on your phone like the rest of us?”
Tristan chuckles before tossing a few bits of popcorn into his mouth. “Because this is TV-worthy news. Big news.”
“This does not count as a date night,” I point out. My fingers dip into the greasy buttered popcorn. At the sound of food, Hawkeye bounds into the living room, his nose in the air.
“Sorry, boy,” Tristan calls out. “Not with all the buttery stuff on it.”
Hawkeye ignores him and waddles over, sitting in front of Tristan and giving him a pleading look that physically hurts me to ignore. My heart cinches, so I force myself to look away from the shining blue eyes of my puppy
“What’s so important that you need to watch the news on a big screen with surround sound?”
Tristan grins as he nods at the TV. “It’s the headline story. They should start showing it any—shh!”
I want to point out that I wasn’t the one talking, and he was shushing himself, but the news anchor with her hair in a tight blond bun stares down the camera.
“But first, tonight’s big story. Senator Marco Damelio has withdrawn the Bradshaw Bill from the Senate.
This controversial healthcare bill had been at the forefront of deceased President Fox’s re-election campaign, and was rumored to have had majority support in July before a series of killings altered the popularity of the bill in Congress.
Former Vice President and now sitting President Wilkinson has made it clear that if the Bradshaw Bill were to pass in Congress, it would be vetoed in the Oval Office.
Zoe Fisher has more on this story from Capitol Hill. ”
“The bill’s dead?” I ask in disbelief.
“Shh,” Tristan shushes me this time, and fair enough.
A young brunette woman clutches a microphone in her hand with the Capitol Building behind her. “Thanks, Hilary,” she says, “Senator Marco Damelio recently replaced former Senator Paul Furt after his untimely death under suspicious circumstances.”
“Suspicious circumstances?” Tristan mutters. Then a small laugh escapes him like a puff of air, and his lips quirk upwards. I know all about Furt’s “operation.”
Note to self, don’t buy Tristan any board games for Christmas. With my luck, the next person who double-crosses me is going to have that Perfection game carved in their chest with the pieces stuck in them. And I’m not about to give him any ideas.
The reporter continues, “At a press conference this afternoon, Senator Damelio advised that he’s withdrawn his office’s support for the bill.”
Clips flash on screen of Damelio as his square shoulders hunch as he speaks behind a podium. His speech is short, and his face blanches the longer he’s on stage. Is he scared that he might be the next target for the elusive vigilante that is my boyfriend?
The screen flicks back to the reporter. “Sources advise that a likely push for the withdrawal from the Committee was due to the deaths of several of its members in the explosion in July that killed seven sitting members of the Committee. While it remains unconfirmed, the suspect, American Guy Fawkes, died in a fire the night of President Fox’s assassination after shooting the President.
While it seems that American Guy Fawkes is no longer a concern, the FBI remains on alert for copycats.
Reports show an increase in bomb threats to federal buildings, and even the residences of some politicians whose information is open to the public.
Some politicians remain concerned for their safety and are on high alert. ”
“How many of those threats were from you?” I ask.
Tristan shakes his head. “None. I think they’re empty threats, but it’s better to leave them scared shitless that their garage is going to blow up.” Tristan reaches for his can of Pepsi nestled in the console of the couch as the reporter adds.
“President Wilkinson’s rally in Denver was cancelled due to an alleged threat of explosives under the stage. While the bomb squad quickly entered the area and found nothing, the rally remains cancelled. Back to you, Hilary.”
Tristan presses the remote button, and the TV goes back to the Netflix home screen.
“Nice going, Genius.” I nudge him gently in the ribs with my elbow. “You did it.”
“We did it.” Pulling me tight against his hard chest, Tristan plants a kiss on my cheek, his five o’clock shadow scratching gently.
“I don’t know if I want any credit for your murder spree.”
“Take credit where you can,” he says. “You helped after all.”
I shrug. “I just wanted to get out of your basement.”
Tristan barks a laugh so loud that Hawkeye’s tail wags. “You’ve been upgraded. I’ll chain you up in my bedroom instead.”
“Kinky.”
I kiss him, and a fire lights in my lower belly as Tristan’s hand cups the back of my neck, keeping me still. His tongue parts my lips. Then he pulls back.
“Come on,” he says as he swings my legs back around so my feet plant on the floor. “Let’s go celebrate.” He gives me a wink as he stands and offers me his hand. I take it and stand.
I am so in love with this man, it hurts to look at him like my heart’s gone into overdrive and might combust if I spend another second looking at his beautiful, mismatched eyes.
Eyes that reflect two sides of a complex man.
One who loves and protects fiercely. He’d do anything for me.
I didn’t even know it at the time, but he was already out there seeking revenge for me.
He doesn’t sit and wait for things. He makes shit happen—and I love him for that.
I love him for being him and the way he lets me be me.
I don’t have to pretend with Tristan. I never have.