Keir

Rowan’s dress glimmers when she walks, and I watch from her kitchen as she leans close to a hall mirror and slicks her full pout in red lipstick.

She’s stunning.

Exquisite.

And so fucking sexy my cock is straining against the fabric of my suit pants, aching for me to rip that slinky little number off of her and take her right here, on the island countertop.

Instead, I contain myself, checking my watch. “You look absolutely gorgeous, but we’re running late.”

Rowan strides across her apartment, gathering a shimmering black clutch and stepping into a pair of pointy, red-bottomed stilettos.

As beautiful as this evening will be and as gorgeous as my date is, it’s laced in bittersweet overtones neither of us can deny.

Tomorrow’s the day she makes her decision … tomorrow we find out if she’s staying or leaving.

The last week and a half, we’ve spent nearly every waking minute together, avoiding heavy topics of conversation in favor of meaningless ones. We’ve joked and laughed and teased. Anything to keep our mind off of what was looming just over the horizon.

“There’s going to be a red carpet,” I tell her as I lead her to the elevator. “Lots of press. Cameras. Questions. If people don’t know who you are now, they’re going to after tonight.”

She offers a forced smile, and I know she’s not pleased about giving up her anonymity, but I know she’s doing it for me, and she hasn’t complained once.

Within a half hour, we arrive at the Kensington Ballroom, an elaborate and ornate two-hundred-year-old mansion-turned-event center in the heart of DC. Photographers are lined up outside velvet ropes that separate the red-carpet arrivals from members of the Associated Press.

Once outside the car, we wait in a line of foreign dignitaries and ambassadors and old-moneyed benefactors with deep pockets and strong political affiliations.

The only reason I came tonight was to network, to see and be seen.

Slipping my hand along her lower back, I lead her down the red carpet, stopping to pose every few feet. Rowan doesn’t break a sweat. Her smile is sweet, her posture as classy and poised as the diamond necklace adorning her décolletage.

“You doing okay?” I ask, leaning in.

“Of course.” She smiles and we make our way inside.

Passing a classic pianist playing on an antique grand piano in the oversized foyer, we make a beeline for the main ballroom where social hour is only just beginning.

At the front of the room on a wooden stage stands my parents, looking like some king and queen reigning over the festivities.

“We should say ‘hi’ before we make our rounds,” I tell her, nodding toward the front of the room.

Her eyes land on my parents. “Right.”

If I were to walk around this party tonight and avoid my parents, someone would notice. Word would spread that I shunned them, that our relationship was strained, and it would turn into tabloid fodder which would most definitely cost me the votes of my parents’ most loyal Maryland constituents.

Making our way toward the stage, I help Rowan up the stairs and watch as she approaches my parents with ease and grace, air kissing my mother’s cheeks and beaming at my father as if they’re a couple of friends who go way back.

“I’m going to grab us some champagne,” I whisper in her ear, my hand on her hip.

“That would be lovely.” She gives me a wink before returning to the conversation my mother has just initiated with her.

Heading to the bar in the next room over, my gaze narrows when I spot none other than Hunter Harrington seated at the end. Beside him is a buxom blonde, a true Southern belle with big hair, a big laugh, and an even bigger rock on her left finger.

She hangs on his arm, smiling and chatting, not a care in the world, and I can’t help but wonder if she knows what kind of man he is. How he’s ruthless and conniving, selfish and egocentric.

And I would know.

Because it takes one to know one.

Approaching the bar, I sidle up beside him. “Had no idea you were coming tonight.”

Especially considering the fact that this gala is affiliated with our political party, of which the Harringtons do not belong.

Surely someone sent him an invitation by mistake.

“Hunter, I’m going to be right back,” Mary Kate says, her Southern burr thick as molasses.

The second she’s gone, he turns to me. “How’s Rowan?”

I roll my eyes, refusing to answer his question because it’s none of his goddamn business.

“Secondhand was never my thing,” he says, leaning closer. “Glad it doesn’t bother you.”

I know Hunter had her first. I know he enjoyed her first. I know she loved him first.

But right now, none of that matters.

Ordering two glasses of champagne, I pretend Hunter is as invisible as he deserves to be, and I head back to my girl.

Only by the time I turn the corner and pass through a vacant hall near the restrooms, I realize I have company.

“Oh, hey, Keir. Before I forget. Was going to ask you …” he says, his thin lips drawing into a mischievous smirk. “How’s my dick taste?”

Before I realize what’s happening, I find my hands around his neck. He’s gurgling, his face turning a mottled shade of purple, and his back is pressed against the wall.

I let him go before someone sees us, and when I glance down, I find the champagne flutes shattered on the floor, the golden liquid covering our shoes.

“Jesus Christ.” Hunter is gasping, his hands protecting his neck as he tries to catch his breath. “You could’ve killed me.”

“Should’ve,” I say. “I should’ve killed you. But you’re not fucking worth it.”

Staring into Hunter’s familiar green eyes, all the memories I’ve tried to forget come rushing to the surface. At nineteen, Hunter was my freshman roommate at Dartmouth. My best friend. We hit it off immediately despite our fathers having campaigned against one another for governor of New York because we got each other. We were cut from the same cloth.

He wasn’t my blood brother, obviously, but I was closer to him than I’d ever been to my own.

And then came Nicolette.

A nineteen-year old’s wet dream, my chem lab partner, and the girl I planned on taking for my own.

Hunter knew.

He knew I saw her first. He knew how badly I wanted her. He’d even offered to be my wingman—not that I needed one.

I’d only been seeing her a couple of months when he stole her out from under me. Coming back early from class to find your girlfriend and your roommate fucking on your bed is a moment that’s forever sketched into my memory, though most of the time I do a damn good job at pretending it isn’t.

I waited until Nicolette was dressed and scrambling out the door before I kicked his ass.

We’ve been enemies ever since.

It wouldn’t surprise me if he came here tonight just to fuck with me. Or to see Rowan. Maybe even both.

Hunter finally catches his breath, and he points a shaking finger at me. “I know what you’re doing. I know you’re announcing soon. And I know you’re using her. You think the Aldridges will help you win.”

“You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about,” I scoff at him.

“I know more than you think I do. People talk around here. Word gets out. That’s all I’m saying.”

Exhaling, I think about all those “researchers” Connor hired to help track down Rowan and dig up everything they possibly could about her. It’s possible, then, that one of them slipped up and said something. I guess non-disclosure agreements are nothing more than a piece of meaningless paper to asshole poly sci interns who think they’re smart enough to never get caught.

Fuck.

“You’ll keep your fucking mouth shut about whatever it is you think you know.” I spit my words at him, and I’m beginning to see red.

“Or what?” There’s an evil glint in his eyes.

If he only knew what I was capable of. The connections I have. The strings I could pull. If he only knew the depths I’m willing to go to to secure the things my heart desires … and right now that’s Rowan.

The click of heels on tile and the whoosh of the ladies’ room door opening and closing forces us to halt our conversation. An older woman with white, cotton-candy hair and a powder blue dress bedazzled in a million sequins gives us each a curious stare before continuing on her way.

“You do anything to hurt her, I’ll kill you,” Hunter says, confirming exactly what I suspected all along. He still has feelings for her.

“I knew it,” I say. “You still want her, and it drives you insane to see her happy. With me.”

“You don’t deserve her,” he says.

“And you do?” I chuff, shaking my head. “You dumped her, Hunter. You kicked her aside so you could publicize some scam engagement and use your future father-in-law to fund your campaign.”

“Guess nothing’s changed,” Hunter says. “We’re still the same, you and me.”

I’m about to point out our vast differences when his gaze flicks over my shoulder and his expression falls.

Turning, I see Mary Kate standing next to a marble console with an elaborate floral arrangement, her eyes wide and glassy, her expression crestfallen.

“Shit,” Hunter says under his breath. “Mary Kate …”

He goes to her, but she maneuvers around me and ducks into the ladies’ room. I’m guessing she heard everything. And I’m guessing by this time tomorrow, the wedding will be called off.

“The fuck are you smirking about?” Hunter’s words cut through the hallway, and when I turn to look at him, I see the pathetic red mug of a desperate man who’s about to lose it all.

He lost Rowan.

He lost Mary Kate, which means he’ll lose the funding for his campaign.

And now he’s going to lose the election.

Wearing a satisfied smirk, I return to the bar to grab two fresh flutes of champagne.

It may be a little premature, but I feel the urge to celebrate my impending victory.