Ronan

“I’d like to relieve Oliver D’Orsay from his post, effective immediately.” I stand before my father in the private study just off the Oval Office the day after seeing Camille.

He glances up at me from across his polished wooden desk, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his narrow nose.

“I beg your pardon?” His shoulders square with mine. “Oliver’s been with you for years.”

“I question his loyalty,” I say.

My father sits up, tossing his pen across his desk. “Oliver D’Orsay has always been a loyal agent to this family. I will not relieve him of his duties.”

“Then relieve me of mine.”

My father’s attention moves past my shoulders, and I turn to see my mother standing in the doorway.

“What’s this about?” She smiles but not with her eyes.

I rise from the guest chair, my hands calm at my sides and shoulders taut. “I was just asking Father to relieve me of my duties.”

My mother laughs, her hand splayed across her chest as she exchanges looks with my father. “What are you talking about, Ronan?”

“I won’t be working on the campaign trail.” I refuse to make a spectacle of this or allow any sort of deliberation, so I leave.

By the time I’m halfway down the hall, the sound of my mother’s pumps scuffing across the low-pile carpet tell me we’re not about to go down without a fight.

“Ronan, don’t be ridiculous.” She struts toward me, then batts her hand and laughs at me. She doesn’t take me seriously, which is going to be a problem.

For her.

“Number one, you have to work on the campaign trail. It’s mandatory. America needs to get to know you better, and this is a prime opportunity for you to get out there,” she says. “Someday, when you run for office, you’ll be glad you did this.”

“I won’t be running,” I say.

My mother scoffs.

“I’m glad you find it funny. I was worried you’d be upset.” I lift my brows. “You understand I’m being completely serious.”

“Ronan, you don’t have a choice in the matter. You’re running. Maybe not five years from now, but at some point in your life,” she says. “It’s your birthright. Your obligation.”

“I couldn’t possibly run for president with a foundation built on lies and corruption.” My gaze zeroes in on my mother’s pinched face.

“Son, I’m not following.”

“Please, allow me to fill you in,” I say. “We can start by discussing the way you used the Secret Service to do your dirty work.”

“You’re making it up. All of it.” Her nose wrinkles.

“Deny all you want,” I say. “I know the truth. And Camille knows the truth.”

“Camille.” She huffs. “You just had to run off and find yourself a whore, didn’t you? Plenty of nice girls to pick from, and you aim for the bottom of the barrel.”

“I’d hardly say she’s bottom of the barrel.” I lift my head high. “Had you done a little more checking around, you’d have discovered that Camille Buchanan is actually a Darlington.”

The night before I left Oakdale, I cornered Linda when Camille was in the shower. I stressed to her how important it was that I was made made fully aware of the identity of Camille’s biological father now. I explained, in not so many words, that Camille had a few political affiliations as a consequence of associating with me, and that it may be dangerous for that information to land in the wrong hands before Camille has a chance to hear it first.

Linda cried and made me swear not to tell Camille, to let her be the one to tell her first. When she’s ready. And then she whispered his name.

Rupert Darlington.

My mother’s jaw falls and her eyes narrow. “I refuse to believe that preposterous claim.”

“You don’t have to believe it,” I say. “Just know that I’m keeping that little tidbit safely tucked away in my back pocket for now.”

Her arms fold across her chest. “What, is that some kind of threat?”

“Leave Camille alone and I’ll keep the information between her, her mother, and myself. I’m sure the last thing you need is any kind of scandal attached to the Montgomery or Darlington names when you’re launching a new campaign.”

“Fine.” She groans, her eyes rolling to the back of her head. “Protect her. Get her out of your system. You’ll come back around once the novelty wears off, and I’ll fully expect you to be good and ready to get back on track.”

“That will never happen.”

Her hands run down her sleeves as she sniffs. “Fine. If you’re not going to run after your father’s next term, then I will. I can do a better job than any of you Montgomery men combined. You’re pathetic. All of you.”

“I sincerely hope you run for office someday, Mother.” I smile. “Hand to God. I hope you do. And I wish you nothing but the best of luck.”

You’re going to need it by the time I’m through with you . . .

Because I’m not done yet . . .

I turn on my heel, hands clasped behind my back, and exit my father’s study for the final time. Years from now, when my mother runs for office, I’ll do everything in my power to ensure that Busy Montgomery’s pristine persona, as America has come to know it, is reduced to chum.

There will be a feeding frenzy, and there won’t be a damn thing her team of highly paid PR consultants can do to stop it.

I’m burning the Montgomery legacy to the ground and taking Busy with it. And as for me? I’ll slip quietly into obscurity, living a quiet, simple life, free of familial obligations and stifling surveillance. No longer will I live under a microscope. No longer will my life belong to everyone but me.

I’ll be free to live the life I was meant to live, and free to love the woman I was meant to love, whomever she may be.

If I’m lucky, she’ll be Camille Buchanan.