“Shaving my goddamn legs because I have to go to a goddamn black-tie event and be a bodyguard. Ergh. Get the rest of the information. I want to know what he’s been doing with his life, I don’t want to go in blind here. Send it to me before tomorrow.”
“Yes, dear,” he replies.
“Do I sense a tone?” I smirk.
“Always with the sass,” his deep voice rumbles. “Anya checked into the Soho Apartment. Go and get some girly time in. You’ve got a badger so far up your arse, Kara, it‘s licking your tonsils.”
“Lovely,” I reply, but he’s too busy gearing up to give me a lecture.
“This assignment isn’t going to be the easiest.” I snort at that, but he ignores me. “But you cannot fuck this up, little one. Get your head in the game.”
“My head is in the game,” I mumble petulantly.
“No, it’s not. You’ve scouted Parliament, for fuck’s sake. I know you Snow, better than you give me credit for. Get your head out of the past and focus on the present.”
“You shouldn’t have given me this assignment if you don’t think I’m able to do it,” I snap, the razor falling from my hand as my emotions get the better of me.
“You forget that I’m the one that pulled you from that hellhole.”
“You pulledLucyfrom that hellhole Andrews.” I grind my teeth, frustration flushing through my body. But he’s right—Andrews is the only living person apart from Owen who knew what happened in that house. I rose from the ashes as Kara because of him.
He gave me a new life, a new identity. Purpose.
I owed him my life.
No matter how fucked up it is.
“Go out with Anya, get a dress, and I don’t know, go for cocktails and shit. Let off some steam. I need you to be a knockout tomorrow, Kara. You need to make waves—and not the waves you’re used to. I need electricity to shine, we need to sell this shit. We want you to make newspapers. Owen Cooper is already pegged as the upcoming change this country needs. He’s the new Golden Boy in Westminster, and he’s doing things differently. The more press he can get, the better as it makes him a harder target.”
“Doing things differently how?”
“Just read the goddamn file and be ready for tomorrow.”
“Yes, sir.” I salute.
There’s no point trying to argue with him, because he’s spot on. I’ve scouted Parliament because I’m antsy, and I’m trying to be prepared and control a situation that I have zero control in.
Yet.
God, I hate it when he’s bloody right. It’s really annoying.
“Be safe little one. You know what you mean to me.”
“Don’t get soft on me, old man. But I hear you and thank you.” I may be a pain in his arse, but he only wants what’s best for me. Well, that and what’s best for his wallet.
“I’ll look forward to reading about your meeting in the Sunday papers.” With that, the line goes dead, and I submerse myself into the water.
How hard can this be?
“Go for the red one instead.”
“Really?” I’m standing on top of a small stool in the changing rooms of Harrods while Anya sits on a cream chaise longue, a glass of champagne in her hand.
She looks over the black number I’m currently trying on and takes another sip, placing it on the table and sashaying over.
That was the thing with Anya. Here she is in jeans, boots and white t-shirt, her brown hair tied back in a simple ponytail and her face bare of makeup, except a small fluttering of mascara. Yet she always walks like she’s on a catwalk.
Her dark eyes penetrate me, her full lips pursed as she walks round me, looking at the dress.
