Prologue
Darcy
“Iforbid you from breaking off this engagement.” My voice rumbles like a volcano on the verge of erupting. Priscilla Weatherby, my fiancée and lifelong friend, shudders, but continues to slip the ring off her finger, placing it gently onto the marbled kitchen counter.
“Darcy, I’m sorry. You don’t get a say in this part of my life. I will reach out to you once I am ready.” And with those final words she walks out of my house, taking my ambitions of the presidency with her. Muttering a string of curses, I fish my phone from my pocket to call the last person I want to call at this moment.
But it’s a necessity, and regardless of my disdain for the personality of the flamboyant, young woman, I trust her. At least with campaign matters.
The phone rings.
And rings.
Then goes to voicemail.
Who does she think she is, ignoring my call? It’s her job to answer me. I throw my phone across the room, not caring if it shatters.
That’s a lie. I have to care.
I’m running for president of the United States and have to communicate with people.
Stomping across the kitchen and into the dining room, I swipe my phone off the floor and check for cracks. There is one running across the screen but everything works. I’ll get a new one.
I flip to Hayden’s contact—accurately labeledDivine Princessbecause she voices her opinions like she is entitled royalty—and hover over the “call now” button. The name is a moniker, but she would probably think it a compliment. If she ever saw it, that is, which isn’t going to happen.
It’s not like I hate her. She’s just too…happy.
Colorful.
Alive.
With a grunt, I shove my phone into the pocket of my black slacks and run a hand through my blond waves. I let out a breath of air and pace back and forth between the kitchen and dining room, my thoughts twisting and turning in my head as I circle my table meant to sit fourteen. As if it’s ever used for that.
I have to find someone to marry me, and fast. If I want to have any shot at the presidency, I need a wife. Two giants already stand in my way—I’m running on the Independent ticket, and I’m thirty-nine. Having a wife is a necessity if I want to bypass my lack of party affiliation and young nature. Then again, my former campaign manager, Stella Harper, put my young status on themarket to attract eighteen-year-old first-time voters. Let the record show I was against the idea, but she insisted it would boost my ranking in the polls. It did. Stella is always right.
Stella is still technically my campaign manager, but she's marrying a man back in Mississippi and is staying there while transitioning and training Hayden Bennett to take the reins of the campaign. Hayden is her second in command and the very woman who knows where my buttons are and makes a game out of pushing them.
Mississippi. Wedding. What day is it?
I check the calendar on my phone and remember it’s Stella’s wedding day.
Shoot. I promised Hayden I would not bug her today.
But my life is falling apart around me, and I need her to fix this. She is the only one I trust—outside of Stella, who is probably saying ‘I do’—to put the pieces back together in a way that won’t muck the situation up more.
I’m not unaware. I know I’m a complicated man. A good-looking, attractive man. A wealthy man. A man of importance and prominence.
But completely thorny, prickly, and stubborn.
Once a woman gets to know me, they run. Just like Priscilla is doing. Apparently, friendship was the only companionship she was able to offer me, though we both knew growing up that we were to be wed in order to solidify familial connections.
Why did she change her mind all of a sudden? Arranged marriages are not my favorite, and I know many people are absolutely against them, but the security they provide is unmatched. Trustis better than love in any relationship. I trusted Priscilla. We share common interests, goals, and values. At least, I thought we did.
What am I going to do when news of the broken engagement reaches the press? Those vultures are going to eat it up like roadkill on a country road, chewing up then spitting out grotesque narratives. I can see the headline now:DARCY KICKED TO THE CURB BY THOMAS WEATHERBY’S DAUGHTER.That story will be told over and over by political news outlets. The pop culture news will probably put their own spin on the story, definitely referencingPride and Prejudicesomehow.
Have I mentioned how much I despise that movie? I can’t go one day without someone attempting to joke with me; the jokes typically involve clenched fists, ladies named Elizabeth, and the stupid quote I’ve had the misfortune of hearing one too many times. Something about being bewitched.
My campaign team likes to joke that I’m just as grumpy, if not more than, the leading man himself. I like to fire those people. I’m not grumpy. At least not in my head. It’s my autistic ways, though I don’t make a point to tell others I have autism spectrum disorder.
