“More like a waiter,” I tell her as the bartender sets two champagne flutes onto the counter before hurrying off to assist the next guest.
Daphne retrieves her glass, her nails sparkling with silver glitter flecks as she raises it to her lips. “I bet you looked cute in a uniform.” She eyes the catering staff in button-up black shirts, not too dissimilar to the one I wore at the gender reveal party.
Before I can say anything, the President and First Lady make their way over to us.
“Hello, Daphne.” Grover leans in to press a kiss to his daughter’s cheek as Grace Fox lingers behind, offering a warm smile that contrasts her icy glare.
“You look lovely tonight, Daphne,” she says. Her voice is pumped full of more artificial sweetness than a can of Diet Coke.
“Thanks, Mom,” Daphne responds with a practiced smile. After all, there are guests, and cameras, and everyone has the latest iPhone with excellent camera quality. Definitely not the place to start a scene.
“You must be Tristan.” Grover offers me his beefy hand, and I shake it with a firm grip, like Dad taught me. I never thought I’d shake hands with the President of the United States. And honestly, I couldn’t give less of a fuck.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. President.”
I’m waiting for the falsely nice ‘Oh please, son. Call me Grover. You’re practically part of the family now.’
But before Grover speaks, Grace inserts herself. “It’s nice to see you again, Tristan. I do hope the atmosphere is up to your standards.” Her eyes squint, and the sarcasm drips off her tongue like acid rain.
“It’s a lovely function.” I beam a forced smile at her. “Mr. President, I’m so sorry to hear about the Committee members. Such a bizarre accident.” I clutch my champagne flute tightly around the stem. God, how easy would it be to break the fragile glass and jam the broken stem right through his eye and end it all right here and now?
Grover’s eyes darken as my words catch him off guard. Or maybe it’s because an underling is speaking first.
“Terrible tragedy,” Grover says. “I knew some of them well. And their families. But new members will be selected next week. There are too many important items on the agenda, and unfortunately, Washington doesn’t have the luxury of time, even if it’s to grieve.”
What. The. Fuck. He’s backfilling those roles? Are the ashes of their corpses even cold yet?
“Daphne,” Grover faces his daughter head-on, quietly dismissing Grace and me from the conversation. “How’s your security detail? Have there been any new incidents?” He’s talking about his daughter’s safety like he’s asking if the traffic was alright on the drive over—useless small talk.
“It’s been fine, Dad,” she says with a starchy smile. “There haven’t been any new incidents.”
Grover nods. “Good. I told you that you didn’t need extra detail. In fact, maybe we should discuss pulling back your security detail further. Wouldn’t want to waste perfectly good taxpayer dollars on?—”
“No,” I snap.
The Foxs’ heads whip in my direction. Grace and Daphne’s eyes widen, but Grover’s narrow in challenge.
“I beg your pardon?” Grover asks.
“Your daughter’s life is still in danger, and you’re threatening to abandon her when she needs it most. And after all of those golf trips you take, you’re going to use taxpayer dollars as your excuse?” I take a step closer to the President of the United States—one of the most powerful men in the world—and tell him, “Go fuck yourself, Grover.”
Slamming my champagne back on the bar, I grab Daphne’s hand. “Let’s go.”
She only nods, her eyes still wide in shock as she settles her glass down and trails behind me.
We hurry out to the front, where the valets are standing around in a circle, gossiping about everyone in the room, shooting the shit.
“Hey, guys,” I wave.
Immediately, they freeze.
I’m not one of them. Tonight, I’m the enemy. The rich, spoiled asshole who ate food that’s worth more than what they earn in a week. Fancy wagyu flown in from Japan. Special puff-pastry appetizers inspired by Australian pub food. Fucking opera cake. Even the name is pretentious.
“Your ticket, sir?” one of them asks.
“Before you get it,” I dig into my pocket for my wallet and retrieve the wad of hundreds. “These are for you.” I had a crisp hundred-dollar note for each of them. “I’m sure the rest of the pricks in there don’t tip.”
“Thank you, sir.” Some of them stuff a bill in their pockets while others go wide-eyed or offer a polite smile.
