I just smile demurely, selling the desire.
He believes young women want him for his power, his connections, his money. I am well-rehearsed in selling men like him that illusion. But I know most of the women in his orbit aren’t choosing him; they are trying to survive him. Tonight is only “convenient” for the girls and boys who’ll never find themselves locked in his basement ever again.
Because after tonight, Speaker Max McCarter’s reign of secret terror ends.
Moments later, we arrive at the hotel. My jade green jumpsuit now unzipped halfway in the front to tease. His eyes are glued to my chest like I’m a prize he already believes he owns.
Inside the hotel suite, I slide out of the jumpsuit in one smooth motion, revealing a matching green lace bra and panty set. “Sit,” I command, pointing to the edge of the bed.
McCarter obeys.
I trail my fingers up his chest as I lean down to whisper, “No touching. Not yet.”
His breath stutters.
Good. I pull a deep-green silk tie from my clutch, one that matches the jumpsuit and lingerie. I tie his wrists to the headboard, slow and deliberate.
He chuckles, clearly turned on by the charade of losing control.
I take my time being seductive and distracting as I pour him a drink. Can’t let him see what I’m really doing. He’s too distractedby my heels, lingerie, and sensual movements to notice much. Plus, he must be almost blind at this point.
This man is old enough to be my grandfather and is still convinced he’s irresistible. Pathetic, really. But the delusion works in my favor because men like him never see the predator in their midst—only the prey they mistake me to be.
“Drink,” I say, as I tip the glass of dark liquor laced with a potent paralytic down his throat. Tasteless. Fast-acting. Perfected in my own lab.
The Speaker gulps it greedily, high on the power he thinks he has. Within minutes, the muscles in his arms go slack. His smile fades. Confusion flickers in his eyes. “What the hell is this?” he slurs.
I slide onto the bed beside him; all warmth drained from my smile. “I know you don’t know who I am. That’s okay, you don’t need to. But Jared Whiteman made sure I knew who you were. Everydirtylittle detail.”
Thank you, Daddy Dearest.
McCarter’s eyes widen. He panics, but he’s trapped behind a body that won’t respond.
“Do you even remember your trips to Maribel Island? It must seem so long ago now. I’m sure you thought all your secrets died with him in that jail cell, didn’t you?” I ask, brushing a hand down his arm like a lover.
“You and Jared were such good friends. Living that party life, never worried about any consequences, right? Untouchable. So many powerful men coming and going. Did you ever stop to wonder about the girls funneled in and out of the island?” I lean in, my voice tightening. “Did you care what you were stealing from them?”
I see it hit, the moment he understands. I pause for dramatic effect. Letting the words sink in. I avoid flashbacks to the island, faintly touching my abdomen where the physical scar has longfaded. The touch anchors my mission, reminds me to stay grounded in the present.
McCarter isn’t my first mark from Maribel Island. But he’s the move that forces Magnus Troy into play.
“Of course not. You were owed it, weren’t you? That’s what Jared and Sophie made you believe. That men like you deserve anything they want.” I laugh.
If only those naïve, powerful men understood the game Jared and Sophie werereallyplaying. They were so evil, butfuck, they were smart. When you hold the dirtiest secrets of the most powerful men in the world,you’rethe one with all the power.
McCarter can’t move, can’t speak, but his eyes are frantic now, pleading.
I retrieve the syringe from my purse and gently lift his leg. The needle slides under the crease at the base of his toes, into a patch of thin, wrinkled, forgotten skin. The dose is precise. The effect untraceable. His end has already begun.
He’ll wake up in a few hours, groggy, feeling slightly hungover. He won’t remember anything that happened after we left the bar. But his heart? It’s already on the countdown.
He won’t remember what I said, but my words weren’t really for him—they were for me.
I despise Dad and Sophie for all the pain and suffering they caused. I wasn’t surprised—or even all that sad—when he died in that jail cell fifteen years ago. Hundreds of powerful men were terrified he would reveal their secrets. And they believed killing him would bury the horrors of their actions.
There’s a quiet poetry in knowing those secrets were never theirs to destroy.
My sisters and I have spent the last eight years dismantling the men who used their money and power to abuse children on a private island under Jared Whiteman’s protection. We’ve hiddenin plain sight, and they don’t even know we exist. Dad’s only true gift to us was our anonymity.
