I throw my hands up. “And you’re sitting here like it’s the funniest thing you’ve ever seen?”
Zane shrugs, completely unbothered. “I mean, yeah. A little.”
I groan, leaning back in my seat and massaging my temples because this whole headache of a conversation is giving me an actual migraine.
Zane, however, isthriving.
“Just saying, babe. It’s Dredyn Steele. Once he—or any member of OCK—has their eyes on someone likethat…it’s game over.”
I freeze.
Slowly, I lower my hands from my temples, staring at him.
He meets my gaze, arching a knowing brow. Then he smirks that infuriatingI know something you don’tsmirk.
The urge to flip this entire table over and walk out is strong.
“Nope, we’re not doing this.” I shake my head, flipping my textbook open to a random page and pretending to begin reading it. “We are not playing the you-hate-him-but-you-secretly-want-to-fuck-him game, because I do not, under any circumstances, want to fuck him.”
Zane gasps, clutching his chest like I just insulted his entire bloodline. “Oh, honey, denial is such a nasty color on you.”
I shoot him a glare over the top of my book. “I hope you choke on an overpriced latte.”
Zane grins. “Kinky.”
“What?” I demand, flipping my page aggressively.
Zane leans forward on his elbows. “All right, let’s be real. The man’s a walking red flag—no arguments there.”
I scoff. “Oh, no arguments? That’s mature of you.”
He ignores me. “But,you can’t tell me that, if circumstances were different—if he wasn’t such a complete and total raging psychopath—that you wouldn’t?—”
“Oh my God.” I groan loudly, cutting him off before he can finish that thought. I feel heat flaming over my cheeks. “Stop. Right now.”
He did not just go there.
I inhale sharply, gripping the edges of my textbook like I might physically use it as a weapon. “Let me make this abundantly clear. If I was the last woman on earth, and Dredyn Steele was the last man, and the fate of humanity depended on us procreating?—”
“You’d ride him until the world stopped spinning?”
I gasp, loudly. So loudly that the librarian shoots us a warning glare. I slap a hand over my mouth. Zane, however, just winks at her. I don’t know if I want to die or murder him first.
But before I can throttle Zane, my phone vibrates against the table, the screen lighting up like a fucking beacon of doom.
Campaign Event – RSVP Confirmed
I stare at those words, dread pooling in my stomach. Because, of course. Of course he’s making me do this. Ten weeks. That’s how long until election night. Seventy goddamn days until my life either continues in its meticulously-curated nightmare or implodes into something even worse. Because in ten weeks, my father—Clark Black, America’s golden-boy politician, the man who can seemingly do no wrong—might just become the President of the United States.
And me?
Mara Black. America’s Sweetheart. The picture of grace, intelligence, and carefully-controlled poise. The loyal, unwavering golden girl who never steps out of line, never says the wrong thing, never lets the mask slip. I’m the pawn in my father’s perfectly-orchestrated image. Nothing less than perfection was ever acceptable—straight A’s in school, immaculate behavior, an ever-present smile—because any slip might reflect poorly on him.
I’ve been playing this role since I could walk. The smiling toddler at podiums, bright-eyed and clueless. Every movement, every word, every breath I take is measured, calculated, rehearsed. Because the world isn’t just watching him. They’re watching me, too.
Every campaign dinner, every staged photo-op, every phony interaction with the political elite. Every moment I have topretend I give a single shit about the people with enough money to buy their way into power is suffocating.
And I’m so fucking tired of the charades.
