My dad'sexpression hardens. "Jenna?—"
"No," I interrupt. "You will not turn my son into a campaign strategy."
"This is bigger than you," he snaps. "Bigger than your feelings."
I laugh. It's quiet. Broken. Unhinged. "You taught me how narratives work, how power is built. How people are used." I step back from him, like he might be contagious. "But you taught me something else, too," I continue. "That when men like you decide someone is expendable, they never stop at one."
His eyes narrow. "Careful."
"No," I whisper. "Youshould be."
Because in that moment, something else locks into place. A terrible, liberating certainty. If I stay here, my son dies. If I listen to my father, my son becomes a footnote. And if I want Amauri back, I will have to go to the one man my father never controlled.
I turn to the door.
"Where do you think you're going?" Dadtries to stop me.
"To get my son back."
My hand closes around the handle. I pull it open and look up. Two men stand in the doorway, filling it completely. Dad's bodyguards. Black suits. Earpieces. Impenetrable. Sean, my father's top security dog, is one of them.
Of course he is.
I laugh once, sharp and disbelieving. "Dad. Really? Seriously?"
"It's for your own good," my dad explains calmly, like he's soothing a child. "You're distraught. You're not thinking realistically right now."
I turn back to him. "I'm thinking perfectly clearly."
"You'll see," he continues, unfazed. "In time, you'll understand this is the best way."
He nods once. Sean steps forward.
"No," I snap. "Don't you dare?—"
Sean scoops me up with humiliating ease, his arms locking around me as if I weigh nothing. I struggle, kick, and pound at his shoulders, but it's useless. I'm too weak, too spent, and hurt in too many places. He grins as he carries me toward the stairs, his grip lingering where it shouldn't, his hands careless and proprietary. I don't even have the energy to be afraid of him right now.
"Make sure she takes the pills," Dad orders, staying behind us. "At least three of them."
Sean chuckles softly. "Of course, Senator."
He carries me up the stairs and into my old bedroom. Nothing has changed. The same furniture. The same muted colors. The same carefully curated childhood preserved like a museum exhibit. On the nightstand sits a glass of water and a small white bottle. Already prearranged. Neat. Orderly. Jeffrey or Marianne?
Even from here, I recognize the label: Xanax.Daddy'schoice of drug for me. It's not the first time Sean has forced me to take them. He sets me down on the bed and steps back just enough to block the door.
"Well," he folds his arms, his eyes roam me freely now. "Are you going to be a good girl?" My stomach turns. "Or," he adds pleasantly, "do you want me to force them down?"
I pick up the bottle with shaking fingers, shake out three pills, and put on a show, tilting my head back, swallowing, sticking my tongue out. "See? Taken."
Sean watches me far too closely, his gaze crawls over my face, my throat, my body like he's undressing me layer by layer. He's always looked at me like this. Since I was a teenager.
"Good," Sean approves at last. "Very good."
He lingers a second longer, then steps out, closing the door behind him with a heavy click. The lock slides home. I sit there, heart hammering, pills hidden between my molars and cheek, saliva pooling until it burns.
I don't swallow. I wait. Because if there's one other thing my father taught me, it's how to never give up.
The next day…
