Ronan

“That went well, didn’t it?” My mother takes a spot next to my father on the flight back to DC.

“Hm?” He looks up from his tablet, smiling like a clueless space cadet. Sometimes I think that’s what draws people to him. He seems so benign and genial.

“The weekend in Iowa,” she says. “It went well.”

Father turns back to his screen and smiles. “We’ll see.”

She turns to me next, tilting her head as she studies me. I’d give anything not to know what she’s thinking, but I’m sure it has something to do with Lydia.

“Did you see the article?” she asks.

“I’d rather not.” I cross my legs as the plane taxies to the runway.

She swats her hand. “I didn’t raise you to be so stubborn, Ronan. I’m not understanding this resistance you have to the inevitable.”

My father’s index finger drags down the screen of his tablet before clicking on something. He turns the screen toward me, handing it over.

“Engaged to be engaged?” I scoff. “Is that even a thing?”

“This will generate a bit of interest in our families,” Mother says. “You still have plenty of time to work things out, and in the meantime, we’ve just placed your names back in the mouth of the media.”

My blood boils as I scan the article. It’s all bullshit and lies, a manipulative tactic with my mother’s prints all over it. I wouldn’t be surprised if she wrote the damn thing.

I read an excerpt out loud, “When asked about the future of her relationship with the firstborn son of President Montgomery, Lydia Darlington says, ‘He was my first love, and I was his. I can’t imagine spending my life with anyone else but Ronan Montgomery. We’ve been spending more time together lately, and it’s clear that our feelings haven’t disappeared. Ronan and I have done a lot of growing up the last couple of years, and I’m confident that there are wedding bells in our future.’”

My mother grins from ear to ear, glancing out the window next to her. That woman would sell her soul to be able to plan a Montgomery-Darlington wedding.

“Funny,” I say. “Lydia doesn’t speak this way. She sounds coached.”

I hand the tablet back to my father and sit back, glancing at my brother texting on his phone several seats back.

“She and I may have convened a little before the interview.” Mother plays with the pearls around her neck, twisting them between two fingers.

I know.

“And why wasn’t I in on this interview?” I ask. “You don’t think it looks odd?”

She shakes her head. “Men don’t discuss weddings and engagements. It’s not proper etiquette. It has more weight coming from Lydia, and the public just adores her.”

“Then they don’t know her like I do.”

Her jaw falls, and my father glances up from his reading, his eyes narrowing through his wire-rimmed glasses.

“What is your problem, Ronan?” His voice booms, a rare moment for a man who built his reputation by staying even-keeled.

My mother places her hand on his arm, squeezing ever so lightly. “It’s all right. He’s been a little preoccupied lately. I’m confident he’ll be singing an entirely different tune in the very near future.”

* * *

I open the door to my apartment and stop when the sole of my left shoe catches on something.

A piece of paper rests on my foyer rug. Someone had to have slipped it under my door while I was gone this weekend.

Upon closer examination, I realize it’s a postcard, only there’s nothing on the white side. No message of any kind. I flip it over to see the front, and my stomach drops.

It’s a black and white photo of the Melrose Hotel.

I set it on a nearby console table and wheel my bag to my room. A large, yellow envelope rests on the middle of my bed. Glancing around the room, nothing looks out of place.

I tear into the envelope, pulling out a small stack of photocopied, handwritten pages. I don’t recognize the handwriting, but my eyes zero in on the dates. They’re all recent. At first glance, this appears to be some kind of diary. I scan the words, my mind working overtime to make sense of everything as quickly as possible.

“He won’t show me his face, which concerns me. But when he touches me, I forget. I relax. How a faceless stranger can wield that much power over me, I’ll never know . . .”

“I didn’t think I’d like the blindfold at first, and then I found comfort in the dark. Every graze and taste and tease was magnified, every impalement that much more intense . . .”

“His voice is handsome, and tonight I traced his face with my fingers. My mystery John has dimples!”

“John told me I was his dark paradise tonight. Little does he know, he’s mine too. He doesn’t touch me like the other men did. He’s gentle and sensual. He makes me forget why I’m really there: to be his whore. It’s been a long time since anyone touched me like that . . .”

I’ve read enough. Letting the papers fall to my bed, I grab my phone and call Camille. She needs to be warned, and until I figure out what this means and who would be tailing us, I want her on lockdown.

Paging through the photocopies one last time, I shove them in the envelope and flip it over. A typed note is taped to the underside.

That warning could mean anything, and it could’ve come from anyone. Political rivals. Someone with a vendetta against my family. Anyone looking to ruin my father’s campaign before it even gets off the ground.

And just as I anticipated, they’re using Camille as a pawn.

She doesn’t answer her phone, and I check the time. She should’ve landed hours ago.

I fire off a text, WHERE ARE YOU? CALL ME IMMEDIATELY.

And then I call Oliver to come back for me.

* * *

“Oh . . . hello.” A blue-eyed blonde with hourglass curves answers Camille’s apartment door in a designer tracksuit. This must be Araminta. “Um . . .”

I’ve known their address since the day I discovered Camille’s identity.

“I’m looking for Camille.” I peer over her shoulder toward an apartment fit for two modern-day princesses. “Is she home?”

Araminta stares at me, her fingers fidgeting as she struggles to speak.

“You’re . . . you’re Ronan Montgomery,” she says.

“Yes.” I glance at Oliver to my left, who stands out of the way. His eyes roll. “May I come in and speak with Camille?”

She steps backward, swinging the door open and ushering me in.

“She’s not here,” she says. “How do you know her?”

“We’re acquaintances. You must be Araminta?”

She nods, extending her hand. “Yes. Araminta Randall.”

Two hallways jut out at opposite angles from the living room. “Which way to her room?”

Araminta points to her right. “But she’s not here. She’s . . . not coming back.”

I scoff, pushing past her and heading toward Camille’s side of the apartment. “What do you mean, she’s not coming back?”

“She called me earlier,” she says, gingerly ambling behind me. “She said she was done with Washington. She needed a fresh start.”

“You don’t think that’s odd?” I twist the knob and open the door. Her room is impeccably clean, her bed made and all her belongings in their rightful places, including her laptop.

“I mean, I knew it was coming, I just thought she was waiting until our lease was up. She’s been talking about moving to LA for years.”

“She’s in LA?” I ask.

Araminta shrugs, lifting a bottle of Camille’s perfume and bringing it to her nose. “I didn’t ask. I was kind of upset with her at the moment. I was more concerned with her half of the rent, to be honest. I think she said she was going home first, to Tennessee.”

“Did she sound upset? Nervous? Scared?”

She laughs. “No, she sounded normal, I guess. I was sort of in the middle of something when she called, so I had her on speaker. I wasn’t really paying attention.”

My hands rest on my hips as I exhale.

“Have you tried calling her?” Araminta asks.

“Yes,” I say. Both numbers. She hasn’t answered either. My last call was placed from my personal cell, the number left unblocked so she would have it if she needed to reach me. That was an hour ago.

“You’re ‘John’ aren’t you?” She studies my face, her lips pulled up at one side.

“Can you call her? Maybe she’ll answer for you.”

She slides her phone from her pocket and dials Camille before handing it to me. If she answers for Camille and not me, I’ll know I’m the reason. If she doesn’t answer at all, I’ll have to pay her a visit in person.

“Did something happen between you two?” Araminta asks.

“Nothing that would warrant her running off without so much as a goodbye.”

She chews on her lower lip. “Okay, then that is weird.”

“Are you positive she went to Tennessee?”

“I’m pretty sure.”

I hand her phone back and stride to the door.

“What do you want me to say if she calls back?” Araminta calls after me.

Lingering by the door, I inhale, my stare fixed on a pair of crystal-encrusted heels I recognize from our first night together.

“Tell her to stop running,” I say. “Tell her whatever it is, whatever she’s afraid of, I’ll fix it. Tell her she’s still my dark paradise.”