Page 46 of The Illusion of Power (Passion and Politics #1)

SELENE

I ’d never seen anything like it.

The two of them wrapped around each other, their lips pressed together. Cal’s long fingers splayed across Beck’s back. Beck’s large hands gripping either of Cal’s face. Their eyes clenched shut to block out the rest of the world.

And I did feel blocked out.

I fell asleep on the inside of their bubble and woke up to find myself cast out.

An outsider. An intruder. No, worse, a desperate, incredibly turned intruder who had to hobble back into exile with a hurt foot, rapidly beating heart, and images of the two most attractive men she’s ever known locked in a passionate kiss flashing in her mind.

Sleep evaded me after that, leaving me with no choice but to stare at the ceiling all night and surrender to a persistent loneliness that has permeated my bones, drilling deeper and deeper into my soul with every passing second.

The past seven days have been nothing but a grind of agonizing obsession, playing the kiss over in my mind to the point of distraction.

It’s a good thing I don’t actually have much to do these days, because I wouldn’t be able to dedicate any mental space to an actual task.

Every inch of my brain is filled with them, every cell, every neuron, every pathway marked by their clear desire for each other and the ache of having none of that energy directed at me.

“Selene, are you even listening?” Monique asks, bringing my focus back to the screen of my computer where she’s frowning at me. “Girl, where is your head right now?”

“Attached to my neck.”

She’s unbothered by my snarky remark and flat delivery, closing the tab on her shared screen that contains our Q1 projections for next year, so I have nothing to look at but her face.

“What has Aubrey done now?”

“Nothing.”

I’ve barely seen the man since I returned from Houston, but I don’t mention that to her. Just like I won’t mention how much I’m dreading having to spend the evening acting like I love him when we’re at this debate tonight.

She squints at me, like turning her eyes into slits will give her the ability to see through to the truth I’m holding deep inside. “Just spit it out, Sel. I’ve never seen you this distracted before.”

I’ve never been this distracted during a conversation about work before.

Most of the time, I’m too focused on it, unable to see anything past my daily tasks and weekly goals.

Forgoing everything that will take me away from the things I need to finish, doing anything to avoid the grating discomfort of leaving something undone, running myself ragged so I don’t have to live with the pinpricks of dissatisfaction firing underneath my skin when I can’t check off all my boxes.

Work is usually what I hyper-focus on when I want to hide from things I don’t want to face.

I disappeared inside of it when AJ died and depended on it to keep me sane when I found out about the affair.

The problem, I think, is that this time around I know I can’t hide from this.

I can’t unsee what I saw. I can’t unknow what I know, and most importantly, I can’t bear the thought of going back to existing outside of their orbit even though that’s where I’ve been forced to live for the last week.

The morning after the kiss, I came downstairs, hoping for a conversation and got nothing but stilted sentences filled with things I didn’t care to know like what time we were leaving and when we’d arrive in Las Vegas.

Their bags were already by the door, and both of them were wearing suits instead of the leisure wear they’d flown in last time.

As a result, I stuffed my Stanford hoodie and leggings into my suitcase and donned one of my pantsuits.

Neither of them sat near me on the plane, opting for the back row where they spoke in hushed voices that were never aimed in my direction, and when they escorted me up to my suite they left me with nothing more than a curt nod and a clipped ‘ma’am. ’

Initially, the sudden shift back to the professional hurt my feelings, but now, after not seeing them for days and being robbed of a chance to discuss anything, I’m just mad.

At them for shutting me out.

At me for letting them in.

At Aubrey and his fucking campaign.

At everything.

That anger and the injustice of being punished for simply witnessing them in their truth swells inside me. I bite the inside of my jaw to stop the deluge of words climbing up my throat, sorting through them carefully before I lend my voice to them.

“Hypothetically speaking,” I start, and Monique clasps her fingers together, leaning in close. “If you saw two of your friends kissing, and they knew that you saw them kissing and stopped speaking to you because of it, would you be upset?”

“Hell yeah. Why the hell are they mad at you for something they did all out in public for the world to see.”

“I didn’t say it was me, and it wasn’t exactly in public.”

She waves a dismissive hand at me. “Of course, it’s you, Sel. Everyone knows you only ask hypothetical questions when you’re trying to get someone’s opinion on a situation without admitting you’re at the center of it.”

“If everyone knows that why do we even bother to phrase it as a hypothetical?”

“To keep the thrill alive,” she tosses out impatiently, gesturing for me to keep going. “Who are these kissing friends?”

“I can’t tell you that.”

There’s no part of me that would ever be okay with discussing Cal and Beck’s private business with anyone without their express permission. Monique presses her lips together.

“Do I know them?”

“No, Mo.”

“You don’t have any friends that I don’t know.”

“Of course, I do.”

Even as I say the words, I know it’s a lie. My life has been intertwined with hers for decades. Everyone important to me has either been introduced to me by her or has been subjected to an interrogation she’s conducted when I bring them around. She’s even met Cal and Beck.

“Whatever. The who isn’t nearly as important to me as what you did when you saw them. Did you, hypothetically , insert yourself into this hypothetical kiss?” She does air quotes and wiggles her brows dramatically every time she says hypothetical.

“Absolutely not.”

She shrugs. “They sound a little uptight, so they might not have appreciated that anyway, but did you want to?”

I’ve pictured it a thousand times. Walking—okay, hobbling—down those stairs and going to them, plastering myself against Beck’s back and Cal’s hands leaving his waist to sink into the fabric of my shirt and pull me closer.

All of us shifting until I was in between them, pressed against Cal’s hard front with Beck’s perfect stature and dense weight covering me.

A low whistle leaves my best friend’s lips. “You dirty girl! You wanted to, didn’t you?”

“What?!” The word is too loud and sharp to convey outrage convincingly, so I have to say more. “Of course not, I’m?—”

Legally and contractually prohibited from being with any man except the only one in the world I don’t want, I think.

“Don’t say married,” Monique wails. “Aubrey was married when he was fucking that speech writer. That didn’t seem to slow him down any, so why should your broken vows stop you from having some fun?”

Before I can address the advice I agree with but can’t take, the door to my bedroom is pushed open. I jump, rushing to end the call as Jordan and a group of women I don’t know invade my space with a rolling rack of formal gowns in tow.

“Set it up over there,” Jordan instructs the duo, maneuvering the rack with her eyes on her phone, fingers flying across the screen. They follow her direction without question while I look on, stunned by the audacity of it all.

“Jordan, what is all this?”

She has the decency to look up from her phone when I address her, and she keeps her eyes on me as I walk over to the rack. “Dresses for the fundraiser at the end of the month. You need to try them on and pick one so Zee can make alterations. We need it to fit perfectly.”

Fundraising is a necessary evil of all political campaigns, and even though the election is less than a month away, fresh cash is still needed to cover things like last-minute marketing efforts and the numerous expenses that can be incurred once the ballots have been cast. Knowing this doesn’t make me any less annoyed, though.

I can the rack, seeing nothing but itchy fabrics and unflattering silhouettes then turn my back to it.

“I don’t need a dress. We’ll be back in Virginia by then, so I can pick something from the closet full of gowns we purchased when this whole charade began.”

“Senator Barnes is bringing some key members of her party to show the public there’s no support for the incumbent. There will be even more press than usual, so Aubrey wants you in something new.”

I cross my arms over my chest, feeling less amenable than usual because my mind is still on that contract and the clause that would have stopped me from having my men even if they wanted me. “Jordan, let me be clear: I don’t give a single fuck about what Aubrey wants.”

Emerald eyes turn into saucers at my bluntness, and she pockets her phone, clearly needing her full faculties for this one. She clasps her hands together, approaching me with a caution she wouldn’t normally use.

“ Selene. I think we both know how important this last leg of the campaign is. I know you’re tired from being pulled in a million different directions, but we’re almost done.

” A disingenuous smile pulls up the corners of her thin lips, and her next words come through clenched teeth.

“Just pick a dress, so we can get out of your hair.”

“You’re not in my hair, Jordan, you’re in my bedroom without an invite and on my last nerve. I will not be picking a dress, so you can pack all of this up and leave.”