Chapter 33
Thirty-Three
Brooks
Orchestra music floated through the East Room as I stood surrounded by people dressed in enough designer formalwear to fund a small country.
All night, people had stared at my battered face.
Not one dared to ask what had happened.
I rolled the stem of the champagne flute between my fingers, trying to pay attention to the man speaking in front of me instead of the woman I had locked in my bedroom.
I kept fucking failing.
“Sorry, what did you say?” I asked him.
Fuck … what’s his name, again?
I knew him. Had known him for years. I’d spoken to him at nearly every White House event and shaken his hand so many times that his name should’ve been stamped into my brain. He’d also dumped a shit ton of money into my father’s first presidential campaign.
Standing beside me, my father cleared his throat.
I didn’t have to look over to know that sound was meant for me.
The man adjusted his thin-framed glasses. “I said, in thirteen years, I’ll be donating to your campaign.” He tipped his glass toward me before taking a long drink.
Thirteen years.
The earliest I could become president.
“I apologize for interrupting you, gentlemen.”
I turned at the feminine voice to find a brunette around my age stepping into our circle wearing a long, glittery dress. She tucked a strand of hair behind a diamond earring and smiled directly at me.
I returned it.
Hers was real. Mine wasn’t.
Nothing against her. I didn’t even know her.
But I had a pretty fucking good idea why she’d interrupted us. And why my father had been so adamant I drag my bruised ass to this dinner tonight.
“This is my daughter, Rachel,” the man introduced.
Rachel extended her hand, all graceful movements and manicured fingers.
Years of political training took over. I bent my head and brushed my lips across her knuckles.
“It’s so nice to meet you,” she said in a Southern twang. “My father has been trying to get me to attend one of these for years, but I’ve just been so busy.”
Her nails dragged across my palm as she pulled away.
Yeah. I knew exactly why she was here.
“I’m pleased you found a break in your schedule,” I replied with enough fake sincerity to make my father proud.
Rachel turned to him. “Mr. President.” She offered him her hand next. “It’s a pleasure meeting you again.”
My father dipped his head before shaking her hand. “Thank you for joining us, Rachel.”
His mouth tightened. Just barely.
Most people wouldn’t have noticed, but I did.
That’d been happening all night.
People approached me before him. Shook my hand first. Asked about my future. Talked about my campaigns I couldn’t legally run for years.
I’d been taught to eat, sleep, and breathe politics since I was old enough to understand what a poll number was.
I knew exactly what it meant.
They were losing confidence in my father.
Donations had already started drying up. People who’d kissed his ass for years were quietly wondering whether he’d lose the next election.
Their attention was shifting. To me.
“Why don’t you two go chat?” the man said, passing his empty flute to a server. “I need to speak to you about those oil prices, Byron.”
Oil. It clicked.
Sterling Beckett.
Billionaire. Big-oil heir.
And now that I remembered his name, I remembered why I disliked him.
He was the worst type of backer, in my opinion. Needy and demanding. Always wanting something in return for every dollar he handed over.
I hated donors like him.
Take, take, fucking take.
I’d told my father more than once that we needed to ditch Sterling’s money. Being in his pocket made us look bad.
Money is money.
That’d been my father’s response.
Like any good politician, I pushed my opinion aside and gave Sterling a courteous smile.
Sterling lifted his chin toward his daughter.
Rachel obediently nodded.
There it fucking is.
I didn’t bother looking at my father as he and Sterling walked away. The bastard was pimping me out for oil money.
I couldn’t even say I was surprised. I’d always known the day would come when my father decided on a wife for me. Someone with the right last name, family, connections, and enough money to help fund my future campaign.
Sterling had all that.
But it seemed my father was starting early … in hopes it’d also fund his.
I scanned the room. Every table was filled with people who’d paid a million dollars a seat to be here. Men with power. Women with power. People who wanted more of it.
I finished my champagne.
“Pretty sure that was a setup,” Rachel said with a timid laugh.
I glanced at her.
In Daphne’s words, No shit, Sherlock.
“Agreed.” I grabbed another champagne flute from a passing server.
Rachel fiddled with the stack of diamond bracelets on her wrist. One slid down her arm. She pushed it back into place, then looked around the room like a conversation starter might magically appear.
I could’ve helped her. I didn’t.
Instead, I studied her.
Pretty face. Brown hair. Nice body. Expensive jewelry.
She was beautiful.
And did absolutely nothing for me.
My brain betrayed me and started comparing her to Daphne.
They both came from money.
Both liked expensive shit.
That was about where all the similarities ended.
Rachel’s smile did nothing for me.
Daphne had about seven different smiles, and like a fucking idiot, I knew every one of them.
Rachel was the type of woman I was supposed to marry.
Perfect on paper.
I dragged my thumb through the condensation on my glass.
I didn’t want perfect on paper.
I didn’t want a wife I had to fake a smile for every morning for the rest of my life.
I already did enough pretending in public. I sure as fuck didn’t want to do it at home.
Like I’d told Daphne, we all had our red flags.
Hers should’ve sent me running.
But like an idiot, I kept wanting to collect every one.
Worse, I wanted her to want mine too.
Fucked-up thinking, but whatever.
I surveyed the room again. My father and Sterling were still deep in conversation, but every few seconds, one of them looked our way.
I needed to make small talk with Rachel without looking bored out of my fucking mind. I knew it’d be a challenge.
All I wanted to do was ditch this event and go see what trouble Daphne had gotten herself into while left alone for forty-five minutes.
Knowing her, probably plenty.
“Tell me about yourself,” I finally said when Rachel still hadn’t come up with anything.
For the next thirty minutes, I learned she was single, a sophomore at Ole Miss, and spent most of her free time with her sorority sisters. She mentioned siblings. I forgot how many before she’d even finished telling me.
I nodded when necessary. Asked questions when silence demanded one.
Basically, I did what I’d been trained to do since birth.
Pretended to give a shit.
I didn’t offer one detail about myself.
What would I share?
That I belonged to a secret society that had no problem spilling blood to get what we wanted? That my heart was darker than the oil her daddy sold? That I currently had a woman held hostage in my bedroom?
The same woman I couldn’t stop thinking about while Rachel talked?
Maybe I should’ve jumped straight to the important part with her.
Even if our fathers somehow shoved us into a sham marriage, I’d never love her.
“Are you going to the after-party?” Rachel asked.
My fingers stopped drumming against the glass. “What after-party?”
“It’s at the Oval Office Club.”
Ah, yes.
The new White House-themed club everyone had been talking about.
I’d never gone, but from what I’d heard, it was where people my age with too much money went to party.
Someone had called it DC’s Studio 54.
That alone had been enough to keep me away.
I had a reputation to protect and cameras to avoid. Once, Secret Service had to drag Adelina out when she’d snuck inside.
“It’s discreet,” Rachel said. “Everyone has to put their phones away. It’s the perfect place for people like us to unwind in private.”
Her fingers slid along my sleeve.
I looked down at them in disgust like a bird had just shit on me.
Again, those comparisons came back.
Daphne touched my fucking wrist and my body acted like she’d grabbed my dick.
I swallowed my irritation and smiled at Rachel.
That smile was at least real.
She’d just handed me the perfect plan for tonight.
I could get Daphne out of that bedroom.
There were only two problems.
Getting Daphne to behave.
And making damn sure no one recognized the princess.