Tessa had the baby anyway. A boy. Cannon, she named him and gave him up for adoption. He was grown now, somehow worming his way into my sons’ lives, a constant reminder of Alexander’s betrayal.
But I’d won in the end. I always won.
At least, I thought I always won.
Then Dante happened.
That man. That beautiful, treacherous, sociopathic man who’d played me the same way I’d played Alexander all those years ago. Who’d made me feel things I hadn’t felt in decades. Who’d looked me in my eyes and lied and I’d believed every word because I wanted to.
I was done with men after that. Done with their games, their egos, their endless capacity for betrayal.
India was different. India was soft where men were hard. Patient where they were demanding. She understood discretion. Understood that what we had could never be public—not for a politician in my position, not in this city, not yet.
Maybe not ever.
But she was mine. And I was hers. And that was enough.
For now.
The bathroom door opened.
I spun around, ready to eviscerate whatever foolish woman had come in here. But it was only Farah.
The daughter of Rashid, though she didn’t know I knew that. Didn’t know about my history with her father, the deals we’d made, the secrets we shared. To her, I was just the mayor. Just another powerful woman at a fancy party.
She looked terrible. Mascara streaking down her face. That cream dress rumpled. A red mark on her cheek that matched the one on mine.
The other victim of Prime’s little street rat. I could tell by her interactions with my son that she liked him. She was possibly in love with him. Why would she love him? I have no idea. She was a pretty girl and she could do better than some murdering criminal.
“Mayor Banks.” Her voice wobbled. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t know anyone was in here, I just needed?—”
“It’s fine.” I softened my voice, shifting into politician mode. Warm. Approachable. Maternal. “Come in. Close the door.”
She obeyed, and I watched her crumble against the sink. Fresh sobs shaking her shoulders.
“She HIT me,” Farah wailed. “In front of everyone. At MY event. I planned this whole thing and she just—she ATTACKED me?—”
“I know.” I moved closer, placed a comforting hand on her back.
“She’s—” Farah’s face twisted with something ugly. “She’s dating Prentice. We have history, me and him. And she can’t stand it. She’s been jealous of me since the beginning, and tonight she finally snapped.”
Interesting. So there was more to this than a random act of violence.
“Are you going to press charges?” I asked.
“YES.” Farah dabbed at her eyes. “Absolutely. She can’t just get away with this. I want her arrested. I want her?—”
“No.”
Farah blinked. “What?”
“Don’t press charges.” I met her eyes in the mirror. “Not yet.”
“But she?—”
“I know what she did. But think about it. You press charges, she gets a slap on the wrist, maybe some community service, and moves on with her life.” I shook my head slowly. “Women like that? They need to be handled differently. You have to find their weakness first. Expose it. Destroy them from the inside out. THEN you go for the kill.”
Farah stared at me for a long moment. Then something shifted in her expression. The tears stopped. The wobbling chin steadied.
