Chapter

Twenty-Three

S tacia weaved through the restaurant, navigating between linen-draped tables and murmuring diners, the clink of silverware and low hum of conversation brushing against her nerves. The elegant, dimly lit space reeked of power and quiet, calculated negotiations. It was the kind of place where deals were made with a handshake over a hundred-dollar steak, where image was everything.

She hated it.

A hole-in-the-wall pizza joint with greasy napkins and an overflowing basket of fries sounded infinitely better. But this dinner wasn’t about comfort. It was about survival.

Michael had called the meeting. He was her boss, the gatekeeper of her career, and after the recent media circus that had nearly swallowed her whole, she owed it to him to hear him out. The scandal had burned bright and fast, but the damage was done. The fallout, though still uncertain, loomed over her like a storm cloud.

As she rounded the last table, she spotted him—Michael, already standing, his posture stiff, his eyes warning. But it wasn’t just Michael waiting for her.

Her feet froze.

The breath locked in her chest.

Her father sat at the table, methodically unfolding his napkin, his polished demeanor as impeccable as ever. The waiter placed a single highball glass in front of him—his preferred drink for business dinners, nothing more, nothing less.

He glanced up, met her gaze, and scowled.

A cold weight settled in her stomach.

Her mind screamed at her to turn around, to walk out and never look back. But Kendalls didn’t show weakness. Kendalls didn’t run.

Even now, even when her heart thundered and her pulse skittered, she forced her spine straight, forced her expression into a mask of polite indifference.

She stepped forward, closing the distance with measured grace, and held out her hand to Michael. Her fingers were steady, her voice smooth. “Michael. I thought this was just us.”

He gestured to the chair, waiting until she sat before taking his own seat. “Your father asked to be part of this conversation.”

And he didn’t have the balls to tell the powerful Senator Kendall no.

Not that she ever did either. The only person who had ever helped her stand against him had been Jason.

A sharp pang shot through her chest. She buried it, tucking his name, his face, into the box inside her that she refused to open.

She took a sip of water, letting the coolness soothe her dry throat. “Hello, Father. I’m sorry to have disrupted your busy schedule for little old me.”

His frown deepened. “I’ve spent the past week cleaning up your mess. A little gratitude wouldn’t be out of place.”

She bared her teeth in a brittle excuse for a smile. “Of course. Thank you so much for your invaluable assistance.” Not that she asked for his help.

His scowl darkened. “I don’t appreciate your tone. I saved your job and your reputation.”

“Do you now believe me about your favorite son, Glazier?” The words came before she could stop them, but once spoken, she couldn’t take them back. “That he’s the reason his campaign failed, not me?”

She didn’t know why it mattered so much. She should have let it go. But she held her breath, waiting.

Michael shifted uncomfortably. “I don’t think?—”

Her father silenced him with a single, dismissive wave of his hand. His gaze remained locked on her, unreadable.

“That’s neither here nor there. What does it matter?”

“It matters to me,” she said, her voice steady, but carrying a weight she hadn’t expected.

His brows furrowed slightly, as if confused by her persistence. A beat passed. Then another.

Finally, he exhaled, a tight, controlled sigh. “Suffice it to say, he’s not the man I thought he was. I’ve withdrawn my endorsement. I doubt he has a chance of being elected—ever. Are you satisfied now?”

She nodded, a small, hollow motion. The victory, if it could even be called that, was empty. Meaningless.

“Thank you,” she murmured.

She smoothed her napkin over her lap, signaling the waiter without another glance at her father. “I’ll have unsweetened iced tea and the Cobb salad, please.”

Michael exhaled in obvious relief, leaning forward. “Now, let’s get down to business. Your time with the Knights is over. You fulfilled the contract better than they expected. They’re raving about you.”

A muttered comment from her father made her pause.

She turned, tilting her head. “Did you say something?”

He hesitated, then shook his head. But after a moment, he reconsidered. “You did a good job with him. Even I believed the choirboy act.”

Her hands clenched under the table. “It wasn’t an act.”

Her father’s lips curled in a half-smirk. “Please. The media treated him exactly as they should have. Maybe he wasn’t a saint, but he put himself in a position to be judged that way. You of all people should know how important appearances are.”

A flicker of something burned inside her. Maybe appearances didn’t matter so much to her. The thought struck her with the force of a revelation. Her father had raised her on image, on perfection, on controlling every narrative. But as she sat there, staring across the table at a man who had spent his entire life molding public opinion, she realized something. She was done.

She smiled. Not the brittle, political smile she had spent years perfecting. But a real one.

“I don’t care about appearances,” she said softly. “And I’m tired of whitewashing people. Of lying to the public about how wonderful someone is when they aren’t. I’m tired of feeling dirty. Of the deceit. Just once, I want a job I can be proud of.” She paused, then added, “Well, another job.”

Michael and her father exchanged a glance.

Michael cleared his throat. “Politics is probably not the best job for you then.”

“That works out,” she said. “Because I’m done with politics.”

He gave a small nod. “That fits in with our plans.”

She frowned. “Your plans?”

Her father’s expression turned unreadable again.

Michael folded his hands. “We were going to offer you something different. Fundraising for a nonprofit. It’s outside your usual work, but it could be exactly the change you’re looking for.”

Something new. Something different. Something to bury the pain of everything she had lost.

She inhaled slowly, then nodded. “Send me the details. I’ll consider it.”

Her father grunted, sipping his drink. “You should consider joining my campaign.”

She let out a soft laugh, shaking her head. “Never in a million years.”

For the first time in her life, she meant it. Never again would she clean up someone’s image, spin a story to fit the world’s expectations. Never again would she let herself be used.

She was done.

For good.