"Look, I don't have anything to do with my mother." She spoke in a strong, authoritative voice.
I almost believed her. Almost.
"I'm not involved in any of her dealings. I don't know who she's working with or who funds her campaigns."
Then she added, quieter and a little sullen, her gaze dropping to the floor, "She wouldn't tell me that stuff even if I were involved. I have no sway over her decisions. I'm nothing more than a broken pawn to her."
Something in her voice made my jaw tighten. I didn't like it. Didn't like the way it tempted me to ask questions, to dig deeper into the wounds her mother had left.
Focus.
Still, I said nothing, I did nothing, just let her talk and work herself up. Let her give me ammunition. What other insights would she give up so willingly?
"I don't work for her, so she doesn't talk to me!" The words exploded out of her, sharp with frustration.
I took one slow, deliberate step toward her, and she pressed back further against the table.
Her bravery faded quickly. A little too quickly.
I didn't trust it.
I couldn't see anything behind her she could use as a weapon, but she had already proven herself to be…creative.
The stapler had been a nice touch.
If she moved back any further, she'd be around the table and sitting on the lower shelf, which would put her at a bigger disadvantage. It would also put her at a very enticing height, right at my waist, those pink lips level with?—
Enough.
"I swear I have no idea what she does, or who she talks to. I–I barely even see her anymore. She's always campaigning, or at some fundraiser, or?—"
She was rambling again.
Typically, I would find that trait unbelievably annoying—a waste of time, a sign of a disorganized mind. But for some reason, when she rambled, it was endearing and insightful.
Her rambling gave me a glimpse of how her brain worked. How she saw the world around her, in bright shades of color and complexity. Where I only saw things as black and white, simple, binary, she saw a whole fucking spectrum.
And I was fascinated.
Maybe it was the way she spoke about music and the way she saw the world so differently than I did. That had to be it. She was merely a curiosity, and once my curiosity was satisfied, I'd never think of her again.
She was just a puzzle I hadn't solved.
Yet.
"She's not going to pay some ransom for me." Her voice cracked, and she looked away, studying the dust motes swirling in the air between us. "If you hurt me, if you kill me, then she is just going to use that as leverage to get more votes."
She said it matter-of-factly, like she'd already accepted it. "Dead daughter plays better than disappointing one, right?"
The words hit wrong—too honest, too raw. I felt something shift in my chest, something I immediately crushed.
"You let me worry about that,maya soloveyka," I said, moving closer, eating up the small distance between us until I was standing in her personal space, crowding her.
I slipped a lilac strand of hair out of her face, tucking the curl behind her ear, the silky texture catching on my callused fingers.
Her breath hitched, a tiny catch that made my cock stir.
Ignore it.
