Page 19 of The Illusion of Power (Passion and Politics #1)

“Well, you’d be the only person in the world who doesn’t have an opinion of me.

” A humorless laugh slips through my lips as the nasty beliefs that exist somewhere between my thoughts and the words I’ve read online rush through my mind.

“There’s a wide range of them,” I continue.

“Opinions, that is. A lot of people think I’m stupid for staying with Aubrey.

Others think I should be thankful that this is his first time stepping out on me.

Within that group, there’s a sector that likes to theorize about my bedroom performance because, of course, me being bad at sex gives my husband license to cheat.

” Agent Drake swallows and shifts in his seat.

I know I’m making him uncomfortable, but I can’t stop.

“I saw a post on Reddit once. There were photos and videos, none of me smiling, though. An entire album full of frowns and rigid posture with a caption that read ‘No wonder AT had to find some new ass. It’s no fun fucking a cold fish.’”

He grimaces. “That kind of language has no?—”

“I don’t care about that,” I say, cutting him off even though there’s a part of me that craves the visceral nature of his reaction.

There’s protection in it, censure and outrage that doesn’t blame me for reading the post the way Aubrey had.

It lets me believe that he’s on my side.

It makes me desperate to hear him say it.

“Tell me the truth, Agent Drake, what do you really think of me?”

There’s no dancing around a question phrased so plainly, and I see the resignation to give me my answer throbbing in the muscle of his jaw, feel it in the seconds that pass slowly, marked by nothing but the sound of my finger flicking.

“Cal,” he says finally, rolling his head from one side of his neck to the other.

“What?”

“You’re asking me to breach a professional boundary. Agent Drake won’t do that.” He shakes his head regretfully. “Agent Drake can’t do that, so please, Selene, call me Cal.”

Something sharp and demanding jabs me in the heart at the sound of my name on his lips. A blade of intimacy that cuts through my sternum and makes me gasp audibly at the first taste of this new familiarity on my tongue.

“ Cal. ”

“Yes.” He nods, copper eyes shimmering with approval. “It’s short for Callan.”

“Callan.” My brows dip inward as I sort through the information in my mind to place the word. “It’s a Gaelic name that means ‘powerful in battle.’”

He isn’t the least bit put off by the random fact that’s just popped out of my mouth. “If you say so.”

Humor that has no place in the cloud of devastation looming over me causes my lips to quirk. “I say so.”

Silence pools between us, and it takes a second for me to realize that he’s waiting for me to ask again, this time using the shortened version of his given name. The question swirls in my mind but stalls on my lips for a moment.

“What do you really think of me, Cal?”

He sighs, and there’s relief in the sound that suggests he was afraid I had lost my nerve. His eyes burn into me through the glass of the rear-view mirror. “I think the only flaw you possess is your love for him.”

Just as quickly as the moment began, it ends with the sudden appearance of Agent Beckham.

He pulls open the passenger side door and climbs inside, slamming the door behind him.

His brows are furrowed into the same hard line of agitation they were in inside the restaurant when Aubrey kept apologizing on his and Cal’s behalf.

I know that agitation all too well. I get how it sits with you, a heavy weight in your gut pressing down on you, making you doubt your own convictions and actions, leaving you with the distinct feeling of being wrong when you know that you’re right.

“We’ve been given orders to take Hummingbird home,” he grumbles, securing his seat belt with a sharp click before his eyes find mine in the rear-view mirror.

It’s a different feeling than being stared down by Cal.

There’s no softness to be found in the onyx pools, just the harsh, sterile sting of metallic indifference.

“Mr. Taylor is staying behind to handle the situation. He’ll be along shortly. ”

I nod and sit back, hooking my seat belt as Cal pulls away from the curb.

There’s no point in questioning the decision to leave Aubrey behind, especially when I know Agent Beckham isn’t the one who made the call.

Aubrey isn’t either. He wouldn’t dare handle a situation like this without Jordan.

He probably called her as soon as I was out of the way.

I can see it now. Him, on the phone panicked and agitated at my outburst. Her, dropping whatever it is she does when she’s not up his ass to talk him through containing the reporter until she arrives on the scene to do damage control.

As Cal drives me back home, I think about what level of problem-solving a situation of this magnitude will warrant.

Since it’s a member of the press and a damning recording of my unfiltered reaction to a new piece in the sordid puzzle of Aubrey’s affair, I assume Jordan will come out of the gate swinging.

She’ll coddle him with the promise of some exclusive or another, making promise after promise until he agrees to forget this all happened.

And even though there isn’t a promise she can make that won’t involve me in some way, shape, or form, I know there won’t be a single moment in those negotiations where I’ll truly be considered.

Not by the reporter. Not by Jordan. Not by my husband.

Because the truth is, they don’t care if I’m embarrassed about my husband’s continued betrayal or hurt by being blindsided once again.

They only care if I’m compliant, perfect, and quiet, and by the time I’m alone again— standing inside a bedroom that still holds all the remnants of the hope and wistfulness that colored the time I spent getting ready for dinner—I’ve decided I’m just about done being all of those things.

While I undress, I consider what this new resolution actually means.

Several answers come to mind while I’m scrubbing off my makeup and pulling bobby pins out of my hair, but I’m too exhausted to truly consider any of them.

As I run a bubble bath to soothe my nerves, I decide that just the knowing is enough.

I smile as the words filter through my mind, reminding me of my mama and the way she used to always fuss at me for wanting to have a solution to a problem as soon as I became aware of it.

The fond memory sparks the desire to reach out, and I grab my phone from the dual vanity and dial her number before I can curb it.

Despite the late hour, she answers on the first ring, worry curling like vines of creeping ivy around her greeting. “Selene, baby, are you okay?”

I take a seat on the edge of the tub and push out a calming breath that’s a partial wince because of the cold bite of the marble surround colliding with my bare skin. “I’m fine, Mama,” I assure her, even as my chest burns at the tenderness in her tone.

She’s quiet for a moment, no doubt battling with the desire to know what my husband has done this time and the need not to have another phone call end in an argument. “Oh,” she says, finally. “What are you doing up? Working?”

“No, ma’am. I just got back from dinner, and I’m running a bath. I was just thinking of you.”

There’s no mistaking the smile in her voice. “Well, isn’t that nice. You’ve been on my mind today, too. Your sisters and I were talking about coming up to visit when you have some time in your schedule.”

Twisting around, I run my fingers through the bubbly water to test the temperature. “That would be nice.”

“No, it wouldn’t. You hate hosting us.”

“No, I don’t,” I insist, then pause and laugh when Mama snorts. “Okay, fine. I do hate hosting, but that’s not specific to y’all.”

She hums her approval at my confession, and I feel the tension in my muscles ease. I missed that sound. I missed this, these rare moments of easy connection. I miss her.

“I can come down instead,” I offer. “It’s been too long since I’ve seen everyone, and I know Daddy hates to travel now with his hip.”

“Yeah, he’s been a whiny little brat ever since the surgery.”

“Mama!”

“What?”

“Don’t talk about my daddy like that.”

“I’m the one who has to hear his mouth, Selene. I’ll talk about him however I please. Besides, he’s right here listening.”

I smile, picturing the two of them in the living room. Daddy, in his big, leather recliner, while Mama and her crossword puzzles, knitting needles, and other random assorted items take up the couch.

“Hey, Daddy,” I call out just as the door to my bedroom opens and closes hard. I push to my feet, standing just as Aubrey barges into the bathroom. “Mama, I’ve gotta go.”

My rushed goodbye layers itself over whatever she’s saying now. I end the call abruptly and set the phone down on the edge of the tub, fighting the urge to cover my naked form.

Aubrey is quiet, and his eyes rush over my bare skin, greedy and unapologetic as he watches me step into the steaming water.

The tub is too full, so water sloshes over the edges as I sink down, using the bubbles to hide myself from the signs of desire I’ve learned to recognize on my husband’s face.

They haven’t changed at all since we met at Stanford, but now, instead of being excited, I’m disgusted and thoroughly confused by his audacity to display them.

Dragging my foot from one side of the tub to the other to create some waves, I let out a long sigh that conveys just how annoyed I am at having to be the one to start this conversation.

“Are you going to stand there all night staring at me, or are you going to grow some balls and explain yourself?”