I extend my hand. “Mr. Steele, I was hoping to catch you before you go.”
“And I was hoping to speak with you as well, Congressman. Congratulations on winning the election.”
“Thank you, sir. I’d like to schedule a time to sit down and speak about my idea for an Illinois-wide early childhood literacy program. As the CEO of Chicago Public Schools, I’d love to have you on board. Perhaps discuss funding for statewide book donation programs, getting books into the hands of kids who don’t own any. We can?—”
There’s a chuckle to my right, and my grandfather steps into the conversation. He slaps my shoulder once again. “Isn’t he a bright kid, Richard? Full of promise.”
I grimace as he squeezes my shoulder blade, kneading the muscle I’ve packed on since high school with the tips of his fingers.
Mr. Steele nods once, eyes flicking between my grandfather and me.
“I hate to steal him away, Richard. But you know how these election nights go.”
I scramble to get my words out. “Actually, I was about to set up a time with?—”
“Senator Graves would like a word, Slade. We can’t keep him waiting.” He pulls me back, and I barely have enough time to extend my hand in a final goodbye before I’m ripped in the opposite direction.
I swallow what I want to say to my grandfather. He has an uncanny way of erasing a person and making it feel like your fault. It’s not worth wasting the words, so I follow him, quiet and subject to his ambition for me.
He drags me past the polished tables draped in blue linens and the gleaming buffet of hors d’oeuvres I haven’t been able to sample yet. Lobster medallions, beluga caviar, black truffle arancini—selections I’d bet my grandfather and his staff handpicked for tonight.
Crisp banners with my name, Slade DuPont, span the ballroom walls, bold lettering gleaming under the lights. The widest one drapes above the temporary stage my team threw together for my acceptance speech. Behind it, the screen still loops the election results—my face beneathPROJECTED WINNER,flickering under a storm of digital confetti.
I squint ahead, through the reflective warm light spilling from the crystal chandeliers, at who I assume is the senator.
He stands tall, holding himself like a man who expects the world to wait for him, or on him. Chin high, shoulders squared, his sharp gaze assesses me as we approach. As if he’s tryingto decide whether I’m insignificant or worthy of his time. I’m annoyed already. He’s exactly the type of person I want to avoid.
When I reach him, he crushes my extended hand. “You must be Slade DuPont.” He holds my grip too long, steel-gray eyes flicking over me, quick and calculating.
I snort, then glance at all the signage with my name and picture.A bright one, this one.
My grandfather barges in, knocking my shoulder with his. “Senator Graves … it’s great to see you outside the society.”
Senator Graves releases my hand, tugging down the sleeve of his fitted suit that looks more expensive than my grandfather’s. He smooths a hand over his black hair—most likely dyed, considering the silver streaking his beard and threading through his temples. Fine lines wrinkle at the corners of his eyes as he curls his upper lip into a disingenuous grin.
Negotiation, power plays—hell, this man probably wrote the art of seduction playbook. And the society? What the hell is that?
Senator Graves’s voice commands my attention. “You must be proud, Henry. You followed through with the new directive. We need fresh blood, and you delivered.”
I furrow my brow. Beneath the scent of champagne, cologne, and fresh-cut flowers is the stench of his words. Fresh blood. The roar echoes in my ears, over the buzz of conversation and the clinking of glasses.
My grandfather lifts his chin and looks at me. I steel my expression and offer a polite nod, aware that right now, respect will not be given. As far as both of them are concerned, this election hasn’t earned me anything yet.
“Slade, you must feel vindicated. I know for a fact your opponent didn’t stand a chance against the DuPont name.”
I didn’t run because of my opponent, whom I actually respect. Maybe he didn’t have a chance of winning, but I’d like to think it was my policies that propelled my win, not my familyname. “I’m passionate about the children’s literacy program. In fact”—I glance over my shoulder, searching for Richard Steele—“I need to talk to?—”
My grandfather guffaws. “Oh, son. You’re a DuPont. The notion that one runs for political office to make a difference is quixotic.”
And there it is.
The senator’s eyes flicker with quiet amusement, the corners of his mouth tilting slightly as he reaches into his crisp suit. A gold pin flashes on the lapel, the initials not his. Yet, it’s quickly forgotten when he pulls out a card.
The rectangle is matte black, velvety to the touch when he gives it to me. I flip it over in my palm. There’s no name, no title, not even contact information. Just two crimson initials: EV. The lettering is precise, embossed enough to catch the tip of my thumb. I brush over the deep red that stands out like a drop of blood at midnight. “What’s this?”
My grandfather and Graves stare at me. “Your future.”
CHAPTER TWO
