Chapter 9
George Thermopolis stormed into his study, slamming the door hard enough to rattle the framed degrees on the wall. His wife, Eliza, barely spared him a glance from her position on the leather couch, a glass of wine in hand.
“Rough night?” she asked dryly, not bothering to look up from the book she was reading.
George ignored her, pacing the length of the room like a caged animal. His hands balled into fists at his sides, the simmering rage inside him threatening to boil over. How dare Max just dismiss me like that? He replayed the evening in his head, each interaction cutting deeper into his pride.
Max Diatras controlled everything in the Pacific Northwest. His support—or lack thereof—determined whether a political campaign soared or crashed.
George had spent months crafting his approach, ensuring every move aligned with Max’s interests, positioning himself as the perfect candidate to carry out the organization’s subtle but far-reaching influence.
And yet, tonight, he’d been all but brushed aside. Worse, Max hadn’t even bothered to give him a straight rejection—just a vague, meaningless comment about “needing more time to decide” before sending him off like a wayward child.
George poured himself a hefty glass of scotch, the amber liquid sloshing slightly as his hand shook with frustration. He took a large gulp, the burn doing little to quell his fury.
“What the hell did I miss?” he muttered under his breath and resumed pacing.
His mind flashed to the moment he’d entered the ballroom, all smiles and handshakes, only to catch a glimpse of a woman in an awful pink dress speaking with Max.
She’d stood stiffly, everything about her radiating discomfort, while Max loomed over her, his expression unreadable.
“Who was she?” George growled, his fingers tightening around the glass.
He didn’t recall seeing her before, and she certainly wasn’t part of the usual circle of polished, professional players who frequented Max’s orbit.
The pink dress had been garish, drawing attention to her like a neon sign, and George couldn’t shake the way Max had looked at her.
Was she the reason Max had dismissed him? What had she said to Max before George approached? His blood boiled at the thought. Some bimbo in a terrible dress, swooping in and derailing his campaign. He clenched his jaw, the muscles ticking as he stared out the window at the city skyline.
“George, you’re going to break that glass if you don’t relax,” Eliza said, finally looking up from her book.
He whirled on her, his voice rising. “Do you know what Max said to me tonight? Nothing. He brushed me off like I was some amateur politician begging for scraps. Do you have any idea what that means?”
Eliza set her book aside, her expression unreadable as she sipped her wine. “It means he hasn’t decided you’re worth his time yet. That’s on you, George.”
Her calm dismissal only stoked his rage. “It’s not just on me!” he snapped. “Something happened before I got there—someone got to him. That woman in the pink dress. She was with him before I approached, and then he acted like I wasn’t even there.”
Eliza raised an eyebrow. “The woman in the pink dress? You’re saying she changed his mind about you?”
George glared at her, then threw his free hand in the air in frustration.
“I don’t know what I’m saying! All I know is that everything was going smoothly until tonight.
I’ve been positioning myself for the governor’s election for months—years—and now he’s hesitating.
Why?” He slammed his glass down on the desk, the scotch splashing everywhere.
“Who the hell is she, and what did she say to him?”
Eliza stood, her calm demeanor unnerving him further. “If she’s important enough to have Max’s attention, then she’s someone you should find out more about. Ranting about it won’t help.”
George gritted his teeth, her words gnawing at him.
She was right, of course, but that only made it worse.
He needed to know who the woman was and why Max had spoken with her for so long.
And most importantly, he needed to find a way to get back into Max’s good graces before his campaign spiraled completely out of control.
Because one thing was clear: without Max’s support, George’s dream of becoming governor was as good as dead in the water.