Page 18 of The Illusion of Power (Passion and Politics #1)
SELENE
I t’s evident none of the men in the office were expecting to see me.
Aubrey looks angry that I’m not at the table where he told me to wait.
The man behind him, who I assume is a reporter because of the recording app open on the screen of the phone he’s pointing at Aubrey’s face, looks so pleased with himself. His eyes are wide, bright with glee and opportunity when they land on my stunned expression.
Agents Drake and Beckham look horrified to be standing at the site of yet another mortifying moment in my life.
Underneath those twin expressions of horror is some other thing I don’t quite understand.
I don’t get the chance to process it either because as soon as everyone, including me, accepts that I am here, and I did hear the last question, the reporter starts to move towards me.
The agents move in perfect synchrony, with fluid, unhurried movements that bring the span of their broad shoulders together to form a wall between me and the vulture squawking questions in my direction.
I don’t even look at him because this hurt, this pain, this rage, is all for Aubrey.
His eyes are liquid, rippling pools of cerulean that are meant to soften me, but I don’t have an ounce of give left.
I can’t bend any more truths or talk myself into being satisfied with the drops of hope for my marriage that have been sustaining me since our conversation the morning President Sanders collapsed.
For days, I’ve been looking forward to this night, knowing a single dinner wouldn’t fix everything but hoping it would be the start to mending a festering wound.
But now I feel more wounded than ever, and God, I hate that it’s happening here in front of these men, but I’m bleeding out.
My eyes narrow into slits, and Aubrey swallows, holding his hands up, ready to plead for mercy I don’t have to give. “Is it true?”
“Sel.” He glances around, shaking his head. “Let’s not have this conversation here.”
“Is. It. True?!” I stomp my foot, knowing it might look childish, but loving the way the force of my stiletto colliding with the floor sends vibrations reverberating through me.
Aubrey hangs his head, but it’s not shame that weighs it down.
It’s frustration. It’s the burning need to raise his voice and shout back at me.
It’s the war waged by the desire to reel me back in and the need not to cause a scene.
“Yes, but?—”
I want to scream. I want to hit him. I want to let the dam holding back the rage that’s been building and building inside of me finally break.
“Why the fuck would you do that?” I grit out, pushing the broken syllables past clenched teeth. “Why would you do something so stupid as to continue to work with that woman?”
Aubrey flounders for an answer. His thin lips parting and then coming back together before anything of substance can pass through them. I know there’s nothing he can say to make this right. Nothing he can do to justify an ongoing professional, and probably personal, relationship with Sutton.
And the worst part about it is, he doesn’t have to.
He doesn’t have to explain his choices or justify his actions because there has never been a consequence if he didn’t.
I’ve never given him a consequence. He cheated, and I stayed by his side, turning myself into the kind of woman I swore I’d never be: jaded, disconnected, placated by small promises, soothing wounds with tattered scraps gathered from the feet of men who were supposed to love and care for them.
Men who spend all their time congratulating themselves for conquering the world and don’t bother to mention the women who carried burdens that left their greedy hands free to hold the riches they have no right to.
Wave after wave of resentment surges through my veins, bolstered by the realization, fed by the stupid fucking look on Aubrey’s face when he says, “No one was supposed to find out.”
A bitter laugh breaks free from my chest, and one of my hands flies up, gesturing at the reporter who is still recording. “Well, obviously, that didn’t go to plan.”
Something about the wild wave of my hand prompts Agent Drake to take action.
He pulls the phone from the reporter’s hand, swiping long fingers over the screen, probably to delete the recording.
The reporter protests loudly, screeching about his civil rights and privacy.
Aubrey turns to him, issuing an unnecessary apology that prompts both agents to respond loudly.
Suddenly, the small room is filled with bickering over the agent’s duties and the public’s right to know what’s happening with elected officials.
At my back, there’s the clinking of dishes, the chopping of knives, the whining of metal heating up over open flames, the hum of constant communication between a team that works with the efficiency of a machine.
It’s too much.
The voices saying everything and nothing at all.
The sounds pressing in on me from all sides.
The harsh swelling of emotions in my chest.
The echo of my heartbeat in the base of my skull.
The heat of shame rising high on my cheeks.
Overwhelmed, I turn away from the men and the mess of my life and march out of the restaurant.
I know Aubrey won’t chase me. He doesn’t do that.
Even when he’s wrong, he remains firmly planted in his position, literally and figuratively.
I highly doubt he’s even noticed I’m on the move, but the agents on our detail have.
More specifically, Agent Drake has.
Everyone and everything I pass on my way through the dining area and lobby of the restaurant is a blur, barely registering through the haze of overstimulation, but his steady presence at my back makes it impossible for me to ignore him.
Surprisingly, his proximity doesn’t grate on my already frayed nerves.
Instead, it feels more soothing to know he’s here with me, keeping me physically safe while I’m emotionally destroyed.
We reach the black SUV, and I’m moving too fast, leaving no time for the agents inside the vehicle to step out and open the door for me.
I reach for the handle, but once again, Agent Drake is there.
The heat of him at my back. His long fingers brushing against mine, gently moving my hand out of the way so he can open the door.
“Let me,” he murmurs, his voice a low rumble against my ear.
It’s not intentional.
I know he’s far too professional for that, but it still feels like he’s offering me something more than this small but expected gesture.
I swallow the thought and slip past him and into the backseat.
He closes the door and rounds the car, ordering the two members of his team who are sitting in the front to get out, and then sliding behind the wheel.
When he’s settled in his seat, the door clicks closed behind him, shutting out the rest of the world, making the soft sound of my thumb flicking against my index finger repeatedly all the more obvious.
The action isn’t new. It’s been one of my stims for a long time, but I don’t usually give in to the urge to perform it, especially not in public.
I’ve always been adept at masking. That’s part of the reason why I got my diagnosis so late in life, but I got even better at it when AJ died and the eyes of the world were on me, eager to witness the spectacle of my grief.
Stimming on top of the constant public breakdowns would have only made things worse, inspiring questions to which no one had the right to want answers.
It occurs to me that I’m opening myself up to those same questions now, just from a smaller audience.
Agent Drake is quiet in the front seat, but I know he’s watching me.
I can feel the weight of his gaze on my overheated skin, which forces me to make the concerted effort to calm myself by squeezing my eyes shut, pulling in jagged huffs of air, and pushing out smooth bubbles of breath that carry some of the anxiety out of my body.
Then, and only then, am I brave enough to open my eyes, to raise my head and meet those dark, inquisitive eyes that don’t shift away from mine in the rear view mirror.
It feels like the moment on the porch earlier tonight.
When he wouldn’t look away from me, and I didn’t want him to.
I thought that desire was just because of Aubrey’s lack of attentiveness in the moment, but now I know it wasn’t.
My response had nothing to do with Aubrey at all.
He could have been staring right at me, and I think I would still prefer the intensity of the elusive agent’s gaze.
I would still want to unearth the thoughts hidden behind his unreadable expression.
Maybe that’s why I give in to the urge to goad him, to force him to divulge some part of himself, because every bit of me feels like it’s on display.
“I know what you must think of me,” I whisper quietly, afraid of the question hidden in the words even as I crave his answer.
“It’s not my job to think anything of you, ma’am.”
Through the mirror, he searches my face, and I wonder if he’s ever looked at me for this long before, if we’ve ever been alone for this long before.
Everything about this moment feels like it exists outside the bounds of our professional context, and I’m reluctant to be dragged back into them by his half-answer.