Ronan

“What. The. Hell.” I corner Keir outside the solarium Saturday afternoon after checking out of the hotel. “Did you do last night?”

The bloodshot whites of his eyes and the telltale stench of day-old alcohol on his breath tells me he was in a bad state last night, but it’s no excuse.

“No clue what you’re talking about.” He adjusts the Windsor knot of his tie and runs a palm down his cashmere sweater. My brother’s biggest talent is the ability to dress himself to the nines, even in the throes of a head splitting hangover.

“Why, Keir?” I invade his space like I own it, backing him against a nearby wall. For the moment, we’re alone. But it won’t last long. “What the hell was going through that arrogant little brain of yours?”

His lips pull into a stupid grin and his hands fly up in protest. “She wanted me, Ronan. Maybe not at first, but the second she thought I was you, she was all over me.”

A kitchen staffer wheels a cart of food past us, and I back off my brother though my eyes still burn into his.

“You knew exactly what you were doing.” My teeth clench. “You don’t deserve her, and you’re nothing but a goddamned weasel, Keir. It’s all you’ll ever be.”

“I’d rather be a weasel than a sellout,” he snarls. “You’re a conformist. You live your life based on what John Q. Public would think, and to me that makes you nothing more than a coward, Ronan. You’re the one who doesn’t deserve Camille. Send her my way. I’ll take her out and show her a good time, not keep her locked away in some hotel room like you’re ashamed of her.”

“I’m protecting her,” I say.

Keir’s face scrunches. “Who are you trying to kid? You’re protecting yourself.”

“I don’t expect a simple-minded prick like you to understand half of what my arrangement with Camille really means.”

My brother laughs, his hand holding his lower abdomen. “Wait a minute, are we pretending now that she’s not just some really expensive prostitute? Are you acting like you actually give a damn about her now, or are you taking the most convenient stance for the sake of this argument? I mean, I know we’re a family of fucking politicians, but that’s the oldest trick in the book. You can do better than that.”

I won’t pretend to understand how a man could grow obsessively infatuated with a mysterious beauty, track her down, buy her exclusivity for twelve weeks, and then claim the arrangement is purely for sex. Maybe it started that way. I’ll admit I was drawn to her for selfish, superficial reasons at first. But now that I’ve spent a little time with her, I’m seeing there’s much more to her than meets the eye, and it would be a shame for me to prohibit myself from enjoying every facet of my time with Camille.

“I won’t discuss her with you.” I adjust the cuffs of my jacket and turn away, only when I round the corner, I nearly collide with Lydia, of all people. Not in the mood for pleasantries or anything remotely cordial, I release an audible groan and attempt to sidestep her.

Her ruby lips widen, and her lashes flutter. “Were you just talking about me?”

“What?” My brows furrow. “No, no.”

She trails a finger across her conservatively exposed décolletage and pouts her bottom lip. “Oh. Then who were you talking about? I heard you say you weren’t going to talk about ‘her.’ Are you seeing someone, Ronan?”

My mother peeks her head around the corner, staring at the three of us before batting her hand.

“My goodness, why is everyone standing out in the hall? Come on now.” Judging by the slight giggle placed in my mother’s tone, she’s in an exceptionally good mood today. “The photographer is waiting. We need to pose for some photos and then your little social hour can resume.”

Any time my mother is in the same room as a camera, she can’t help but smile and flit about like she’s Mary fucking Poppins. She hangs on my father’s arms and refuses to call him by his first name, Harris, opting for Mr. President instead, because she thinks it makes her more relatable to the voting public.

We file into the solarium and smile for photos which I’ll probably never see, because my mother is having them published in God-knows-what newspaper in God-knows-where, but at least it’s done and I can go about the rest of my day.

I check my watch. Oliver should be buying the disposable cellphones any minute and having Camille’s delivered. In a little more than twenty-four hours, I’ll see her again.

“You’re smiling, son.” My mother’s voice is low as she leans into me a minute after the photographer finishes up. “I saw that you and Lydia were chatting in the hallway.”

She steps in front of me, partially so she can capture my full attention, but mostly so she can trap me in this corner of the Sky Parlor. Mother’s hands smooth out the lapels of my jacket and she tilts her head while wearing a toothy smile.

“I just want you to know, it means the world to the President and me that you’re speaking to Lydia again. It’s a small step, I know, but someday you’ll be grateful.” Her dark blue eyes rest on mine. “One of these days, it’ll be you in the Oval Office, and it will be painted portraits of you and Lydia gracing these hallways. I know it probably isn’t the life you’ve always dreamed of, but you were born to lead, Ronan. You’re my quiet calm in the storm. Nothing rattles you. And you have a good, strong heart. Our family’s legacy is going to live on because of you and all the wonderful things you’re going to do for this country.”

She wipes away the tiniest sliver of a tear, which is the most emotion anyone will ever get out of Busy Montgomery, and pats my shoulder.

“Lovely speech, Mother, but I’m not reconciling with Lydia.”

In an instant, her saccharin expression melts and her frown lines deepen. Before she has a chance to respond, my father calls for her from across the room.

“This conversation isn’t over.” She slicks her hand over the top of her hair and strides away in her meticulously lint-rolled navy pantsuit. The small crowd of people steps aside when they see her coming. No matter her surroundings, Busy Montgomery can command a room like no one else. Sometimes I wonder who’s really in charge of this country. My money’s on the woman standing twenty feet away with her hand on my father’s forearm and flashing that signature smile that lights up the room.

A vote for my father is a vote for Busy. She’s setting herself up for her own turn in the Oval Office. I should’ve known. This was always about her. Every photo opportunity, every pre-planned PR maneuver, every humanitarian platform and political agenda . . .

The only thing more concerning about a manipulative ice queen running the country is the fact that Busy Montgomery has never met a goal she couldn’t conquer, and she’s not afraid to obliterate every bump in the road on her way there.