Good. Elsebeth always thinks three steps ahead, same as me.
"Well, gentlemen," Gribble says, shouldering his camera bag, just like I knew he would the second we ran his plate, "it's been educational. But I've got work to do."
He starts walking toward the parked van, then pauses and looks back at me.
"Oh, and Mr. Rooke? You might want to keep an eye on social media today. Sometimes the biggest stories come from where you least expect them."
The cold tone in his voice makes my stomach drop. This jerk knows what he’s doing. He knows something specific, something that's about to go public.
I watch him climb into his dented van and drive away, his parting words echoing in my head like a warning bell.
"Sir?" Wilfred's looking at me expectantly. "Should we call it in to local PD?"
"No." I'm still staring at the spot where the van disappeared around the corner. "He didn't break any laws. But I want you to stay at this entrance. Anyone else shows up asking questions or taking pictures, you radio me immediately."
"Yes, sir."
I head back through the service corridors, my mind racing through possibilities. Guys like Gribble Nix don't operate in a vacuum. Someone fed him information, pointed him toward the Quinn family, maybe even paid him to be here today. The question is who and what they're hoping to accomplish.
I'm halfway across the corridor when Caroline appears in the service doorway, her usual composure cracked like broken glass. Her wings flutter with agitation, and her gold-hazel eyes are wide with barely controlled panic.
"Darhg," she says, her voice tight with controlled urgency. "Senator Quinn needs you backstage. Now."
Chapter Three
Rona
Thephonetremblesinmy hands like a dying bird.
I can't stop staring at the screen, watching the numbers climb. Views, shares, and comments are multiplying faster than I can process. Some of them are scathing enough to make my eyes bleed. Not a single one is questioning whether the video is real and I kind of understand why. The girl in the video looks exactly like me. Same strawberry-blond hair, same pale-blue eyes, same face. Sameeverything.
But it's not me.
I've never been to whatever party this is. Never worn that barely there outfit. Never danced on a table while drunk college boys cheered me on. And I've definitely never stripped and exposed myself to a room full of strangers.
But watching it happen on my phone screen over and over again, it feels like looking into an alternate universe. Seeing my face attached to this nightmare makes my stomach churn with a mixture of violation and terror.
No one will ever believe me.
The thought circles around in my brain as I sit in one of the upholstered chairs in the side suite adjacent to the main ballroom. I don’t give a fuck anymore about my carefully constructed campaign appearance. My hair is coming loose from Caroline's perfect styling. My makeup is smudged and running under my eyes. I look like a sad, angry clown.
Which is exactly how I feel. Like a clown who became the butt of a cruel joke.
I’m trying not to cry. It’s becoming harder and harder. The elegant but functional furniture of the room with its small conference table and neutral-toned chairs feels cramped with the crisis energy filling the room.
Mom stands rigid at the tall windows overlooking the hotel's exterior, phone pressed to her ear, speaking in sharp, controlled tones to someone who's likely wishing they could melt intothe floor right now. My mother isn’t the most agreeable person when she feels threatened.
"I don't care what it takes," she says to her unknown interlocutor. "That video is already trending, and if it’s not taken down right now, there’s no way to stop it from becoming viral. Get this contained right now."
Viral. The thought makes me want to crawl under my bed and hide there until I’m no more than a speck of dust. Instead, I go back to staring at my phone.
I refresh the Asterion post obsessively, watching the shares and comments multiply. My hands shake. Nausea rolls through my stomach, making my eyes water. Everything feels unreal, like I'm watching someone else's life implode.
The shame burns deeper than the fear. Not just at seeing myself displayed this way but knowing that everyone seeing this video will assume it's real. They'll think this is who I really am and nothing I can say will convince them otherwise. Everyone believes what they see with their own eyes, after all.
My chest tightens with panic. How will this affect Mom's career? She built her career based on the strong, independent woman image who can also be the head of her family. I’ve been the crown jewel of her achievement for so long, it’s hard to even fathom what this will do to her. What her enemies will turn this into. No matter how hard she works, all everyone will see when they look at her is the woman whose daughter went wild.
A disgrace that will surely climb the ladder from me to her.
