Jules whispers, “Guys, Pippa can handle herself. We need Jake to make the introduction. Behave.”
Jake. Ugh.
As the speeches and toasts finish, the president takes the podium. He rambles on, making absolutely no sense. No doubt the guy has dementia—I don’t know who his medical staff thinks they are fooling.
When he finally steps down, dinner has been cleared, and people begin to mill about again.
It’s time.
TWENTY-SEVEN
reclamation
Pippa
Thursday Evening, Day 36
The decor of the new ballroom is gaudy. Gold light spills from chandeliers the size of small planets, refracting through crystal and champagne flutes, catching on sequins and polished shoes. Everyone here is dressed to be admired or feared—some manage both.
My skin has been crawling all night as I’ve had to smile and nod and rub elbows with criminal after predator after egotistical asshole.
My date, Jake, is a younger version of all these gross old men in power, and it’s set me on edge all this evening. I’ve managed to keep things cordial and flirty, feigning interest in his boring, one-sided, and self-absorbed conversations all night. It’s all been worth it, because we are approaching Magnus Troy.
My pulse ticks against the inside of my throat.
“Breathe,” Jules says softly in my ear. “You’re doing great, Pip.”
I don’t respond as Jake steers me forward with a proprietary hand at the small of my back.
“You’re clear,” Hudson says through the comms. “Junior is across the room—no line of sight.”
Troy stands near the center of the room, surrounded by men who laugh too hard and women who tilt their heads just enough to look interested. He’s thinner than the last time I saw him. Smaller. Age has hollowed him out, but the self-importance is still there, puffed up and polished.
Jake squeezes my waist. “There he is,” he says, breath warm against my ear. “Try not to swoon.”
I don’t reply. My heart races. I picture myself outside of my body. Time for the role of my lifetime. I twist the solitaire stone just slightly. The motion likely looks like I’m fidgeting—nervous to meet the Pedophile of the United States.
You can do this, Pippa.
Do it for Catherine.
When we stop in front of him, Jake clears his throat, already smiling too wide. “Mr. President, may I introduce Pippa Saint James.”
Jake gestures to me.
I step forward.
There’s a beat—a fraction of a second where the room seems to dim, where the music dulls into a low hum—before Troy looks up.
When his eyes land on me, I freeze.
The air shifts. Not enough for anyone else to notice. Just enough that I do.
His smile falters. Comes back wrong.
He blinks once. Twice.
“Sorry,” he says slowly. “Have we…have we met?”
