Page 52 of The Illusion of Power (Passion and Politics #1)
SELENE
A n incessant buzzing wakes me from a dream about Cal and Beck that doesn’t even come close to the reality of what we shared earlier tonight.
Well, yesterday, I correct myself when I pick up my phone and see that it’s almost four in the morning.
It feels wrong to already be so far removed from such a beautiful moment, but I’ve come to accept that joy is fleeting and the blows that come with being associated with Aubrey Taylor not only persist but linger.
I haven’t even fully recovered from the shock of his shift on gun control, and now he’s done something else.
What that something is, I’m not exactly sure yet.
I scroll through a long stream of unread texts from Monique, my mom, and, shockingly, my sisters to get to the news alerts I keep on even though they make me anxious.
There are several to choose from, but I click the first one I see, wincing at the brightness of the screen as the article loads.
The headline—What Does Aubrey Taylor Stand For?
—doesn’t bode well for him, but I’m incredibly amused by the fact that the reporter is asking the same question I did last night.
The only difference is they’re posing the question to the world, not the man himself, and using the words of President Sanders to do it.
After weeks of speculation about his health and ability to lead, President Sanders used the stage of last night’s debate to remind the American people that he still has the same fire and zeal that got him elected four years ago.
Sanders delivered blow after fatal blow to his opponent, Democrat Aubrey Taylor.
Attacking his voting record as a Senator, taking him to task on his ‘fair weather politics’ and mentioning his affair with campaign speechwriter, Sutton Ellsworth, as proof of Taylor’s “lack of integrity and moral fortitude”… ..
The article goes into further detail about the points Sanders made, deeming him the clear victor of the night, but there’s nothing in it that really warrants my phone being blown up. Closing the news app, I go to my messages, clicking on Monique’s thread, which has the newest message.
Monique: I’m sorry. You’re probably sleeping. I hope you’re sleeping. I shouldn’t have bothered you, but I’m just so fucking pissed. I don’t know how you’re still with him.
Confused, I scroll back to the top of today’s messages to figure out what she’s apologizing for. The first one came in just ten minutes ago, and the rest flowed in, in rapid succession.
Monique: Why won’t they just let this Sutton shit die?
Monique: They shouldn’t even be allowed to publish photos like that.
Monique: These are worse than the first ones.
Monique: I’m going to kill him.
Monique: Can I say that? Will the Secret Service come and arrest me or something?
Monique: Ohh, do you think those two sexy ones will come put the cuffs on me? What are their names? Beckford and Dean? Blake and Drakeford? Shit, I don’t remember, but if it has to be somebody, let it be them.
That message makes me laugh despite my continued confusion over what the hell she’s talking about.
I exit out of the texts and head to Google, finding what has her up in arms in a matter of seconds, and immediately becoming sick to my stomach.
Apparently, President Sanders’ mention of Sutton at the debate inspired the person who initially sent me proof of the affair to share what little leverage I had left with the rest of the world.
Scrambling to sit up, I let out a string of low curses as I scroll through the photos, seeing all of the ones I’ve been holding on to like a lifeline and a few that I’ve never laid eyes on before.
If I were still in love with Aubrey, still invested in this marriage, Monique would be right in saying that these new ones are worse than the first release.
There are three in total. One of them is a selfie, probably taken on Sutton’s phone.
Her head is resting on Aubrey’s bare chest while he sleeps, the arm not around her waist tucked underneath plush pillows with one word threaded into the fabric in a flowy, script font that’s barely visible to the eye.
Taylor.
He fucked her in our bed.
I’m more disgusted than hurt by that. The next few photos are more of the same.
Personal, intimate, adulterous moments they chose to capture, heedless of the fact that one day they could be found out.
The last photo isn’t a selfie. Like every other one I’ve seen of them together before right now, it’s taken from afar.
Aubrey and Sutton are both unaware that they’re being watched, but they’re exercising more discretion because they’re in public, strolling through a park near my office, traversing the path we taught AJ to ride a bike on.
I used to walk that path after work, used to sit on the benches on spring afternoons and watch fretful parents promise their kids they wouldn’t let go and smile right along with them when they broke that promise, confident their kid would succeed, and they did.
That path used to be one of the places I could go and remember my son.
It was sacred, and now it’s been desecrated.
That hurts, but I’m used to losing things when it comes to AJ.
With every year that passes, and despite my best efforts, he fades away a little more.
My memory of his laugh is inaccurate. My recollection of the feel of the curls I used to ruffle all the time is dull.
So, in the grand scheme of things, never being able to return to the park or that path again isn’t that big of a deal, and the longer I sit with that, reminding myself of all the things I do still have left of him, the less it seems to matter.
I shoot off quick responses to Monique and both of my sisters, asking them to reassure Mama that I’m okay, and then turn off my phone, determined to go back to sleep.
Only, I can’t seem to find a comfortable spot, so I toss and turn, which only serves to highlight all the places on, and in, me that were touched by my men last night.
Despite the shitty wake up call, I find myself smiling at the memories, at the ache between my thighs from being stretched open by Beck and the small, tender spots on my hips from Cal’s grip.
After they left me, I was far too exhausted to truly appreciate everything that transpired between us, but now I’m obsessing over every detail.
Knowing I won’t be able to sleep now, I decide to grab a cup of coffee and use my good mood to start working on a new program I’ve been thinking about for a while now.
I open my bedroom door, expecting to be greeted by darkness and finding light instead.
It’s a soft, ambient light, coming from the lamps on the dining area.
I crane my neck to get a good look at the table without being spotted and see Aubrey, Jordan and Cordelia leaning in close, speaking in hushed tones.
Wanting to know what’s being said, I tiptoe a little closer, noting then that they’re alone.
No security. No staffers. Just the three of them.
The sight is so odd, so distracting, I step out a bit too far, bumping into a side table and calling all of their attention to me.
Both Jordan and Cordelia are stunned by my sudden appearance, but Aubrey?
Aubrey is pissed. He’s on his feet and across the room before either of his companions can say a word.
His rough, angry hands on my shoulders before I can blink.
“Who the fuck did you give those photos to?!” He’s seething, face red, eyes bloodshot from a lack of sleep and misplaced anger. “You’re working with him, aren’t you?”
Everything about this moment—his rage, the pain shooting through my arms because of how tight his hold is, and the way my vision keeps blurring when he shakes me—calls for panic, for tears, for fear, but I don’t have access to any of those things.
All I have is this calm resonating inside of me, stemming from the knowledge that no matter how angry he is with me, he can’t kill me because the women in this room won’t let him.
Not because they give a fuck about me. They don’t.
But because watching Aubrey murder me would land them in prison right beside him, and they can’t run the world from a prison cell.
Well, Jordan probably could.
The random thought inspires an ill-timed smile to appear on my face, which only enrages Aubrey more.
“You think this shit is funny? Am I fucking joke to you?” He growls and spins me around, backing me into a wall. I hit it so hard that the framed artwork falls off, landing with a loud crash.
Jordan stands then, striding over to us with no sense of urgency. “Aubrey, that’s enough. Let’s all sit down and talk before the agents outside the door decide to come in here and see what all the commotion is about.”
He does release me, but not without one final squeeze of my arms that conveys every ounce of hatred and dismay he holds for me.
Jordan places herself between us, following closely behind Aubrey until he’s back in his seat next to Cordelia, who, of course, doesn’t look as upset by his show of violence as she did by the scene I made at the debate.
I take a seat at the far end of the table, away from all of them.
My ass has barely touched the seat when Jordan starts with her inquisition.
“I’m sure by now you’re aware that new photos of Aubrey and Sutton have been made public.”
“Of course she’s aware,” Aubrey gripes, glaring at me. “She’s the one who fucking sent them out.”
“Why would I do that, Aubrey? How would it serve me to provide the public with the only thing I had left to hold over you?”
“To get back at me for the shift in my stance on gun control.”
Tilting my head to one side, I consider his logic. “I could see why you would think that. The timing of this definitely seems convenient, but surely you know I’m capable of exacting revenge without hurting myself in the process.”