Page 138 of Heartless Sinner

I rolled my eyes. “Way to ruin the moment.”

He gave my chin a smug little flick before sliding off the bed.

I sat up. “What am I supposed to do? You didn’t let me bring my phone.”

He walked backward toward the door. “Suffer in boredom. Think about all the ways you’ve wronged me in this life.”

At the door, he straightened his bow tie and rolled his shoulders back.

He cracked the door open. “Then think about all the ways you want to please me as your Son. As a matter of fact, there’s a notebook and pen in the nightstand. Make a list, and I’ll collect it upon my return.”

“I can already tell you what’ll be number one⁠—”

The door shut.

Jerk face.

I hopped off the bed and rushed after him, grabbing the handle.

Unlocked.

I opened the door barely an inch and pressed my face into the gap.

Brooks was already halfway down the hallway, walking beside a Secret Service agent like he hadn’t smuggled a woman into the White House in a suitcase.

I eased the door shut before either of them could turn around.

I was illegally hiding inside the White House without a phone, an escape plan, or anyone knowing I was here.

What can possibly go wrong?

Thirty-Three

Brooks

Orchestra music floated through the East Room as I stood surrounded by people dressed in enough designer formalwear to fund a small country.

All night, people had stared at my battered face.

Not one dared to ask what had happened.

I rolled the stem of the champagne flute between my fingers, trying to pay attention to the man speaking in front of me instead of the woman I had locked in my bedroom.

I kept fucking failing.

“Sorry, what did you say?” I asked him.

Fuck … what’s his name, again?

I knew him. Had known him for years. I’d spoken to him at nearly every White House event and shaken his hand so many times that his name should’ve been stamped into my brain. He’d also dumped a shit ton of money into my father’s first presidential campaign.

Standing beside me, my father cleared his throat.

I didn’t have to look over to know that sound was meant for me.

The man adjusted his thin-framed glasses. “I said, in thirteen years, I’ll be donating to your campaign.” He tipped his glass toward me before taking a long drink.

Thirteen years.