To anyone watching, we’re the picture of young love, standing close as we await a proud father’s words.
My eyes flick upward regardless, searching the sea of faces now turned toward the stage. The thunder of my father’s amplifiedvoice rolls through the ballroom as he begins, but for a second I can’t process his words. My gaze snags on movement near the main doors at the back. Three figures slip in, moving through the standing crowd.
Jasper. Dredyn. Talon.
They came.
A mixture of relief and alarm floods through me in equal measure. I feel suddenly, dizzyingly alive.
Before I can fully react, Chase’s fingers press harder into my back, almost making me flinch. The pain snaps me back, and I tear my eyes away from the boys and face forward, masking the slip with a turn of my head that could be mistaken for scanning the crowd. My heart drums wildly against my ribs. Dozens of cameras are trained on Father, and by extension, me and Chase.
We must look composed, happy.
Chase leans in, his breath hot at my ear. “Easy,” he murmurs, the single word edged in threat beneath an outward appearance of a lover’s whisper. My cheeks hurt from maintaining my smile.
Up on stage, Father is in his element. The applause fades as he launches into his speech, voice rich with emotion that I suspect he doesn’t truly feel. “Tonight marks the beginning of a new era for our family… and our nation,” he declares, spreading his arms wide to encompass everyone present. The crowd responds with a swell of cheers.
I force myself to focus on his speech, if only to stop my knees from shaking. He speaks of unity and progress, of hard work and destiny. I catch words here and there—honor, service, legacy—but they swirl meaninglessly around me.
“As we celebrate this victory. I am reminded that tonight is not just about politics or polls. It’s also about family.” He beckons me with a hand, and I obediently ascend the single step onto the stage beside him. Chase follows close behind, never letting go of his hold at my waist.
My father slides an arm around my shoulders, drawing me to his side in front of the podium. I know exactly how we must look:the triumphant patriarch and his beautiful daughter—the perfect American family portrait.
“This young woman here has been my rock and my inspiration. My daughter, Mara Black—her strength, her grace, her devotion to this country’s future—well, she has found her perfect match.”
Perfect match.
The phrase lands like a slap across my face. Even though I’ve been bracing for it, I feel something inside me splinter.
My lungs constrict; I can’t breathe.
I want to run. I want to scream. Chase’s fingers curl possessively at my waist, anchoring me in place. My smile is frozen so hard it feels carved on.
Father leans forward to the microphone, his voice dropping into a proud, warm timbre. “It is my honor to announce,” he says, drawing out the moment, “the engagement of my daughter, Mara Black, to…” He turns slightly, extending his free arm toward Chase. “Chase Harrington.”
Then the room erupts.
The orchestra strikes up a jubilant chord, guests cheer and whistle. I hear a few startled gasps and delighted exclamations from those who clearly didn’t see this coming tonight. A blur of motion surrounds us as people leap to their feet, champagne sloshing in their glasses as they applaud the happy news.
Happy. Yes, this is a happy moment, what else could it be? A new president and a fairytale engagement all in one night.
Chase steps forward and smoothly takes my left hand in his. He produces a ring from his pocket—a glittering monster of a diamond set in an antique gold band. My vision blurs at the edges as I watch him lift it.
No, no, no…
My mind is keening, but no sound escapes my lips. I’m smiling, and everyone is watching, and I’m trapped.
He slides the ring onto my finger.
A strangled noise claws at the back of my throat. To theaudience, it must look like a gasp of surprise or even joy. Chase’s hand wraps around mine, warm and imprisoning, as he turns us to face the crowd.
Somewhere to my left, a waiter pops open a bottle of champagne with a celebratory crack. As if on cue, glasses are raised all around. My father takes one from an aide and lifts it high.
“To family.” He looks directly into my eyes, a blazing pride in his. “To legacy.”
A fleet of waiters circle with champagne; one presses a flute into my free hand. I lift it mechanically along with Chase and my father, mimicking a happiness I do not feel.
In that overwhelming chorus, I feel something hot trail down my cheek. A tear. It courses down to my chin, threatening to mar the immaculate makeup.
