Page 60 of The Illusion of Power (Passion and Politics #1)

SELENE

F our days ago, I had no idea who Jacob Marsh was.

I’d heard of his father. Read all about his failed attempt to assassinate a sitting President and the hate that led him there. Hate, he has apparently passed down to his son, who now wants to kill me.

And for what?

Because my son died and his father took the resulting call for action as a personal attack on his way of life and wound up in prison?

Because, almost five years after the fact, I dared to stand on a stage and express my belief that America’s gun problem won’t be solved with thoughts and prayers?

Because I refuse to kill myself like so many of the posts he paid to have pushed to the masses say I should?

Beck would tell me not to try to make sense of this.

Cal would promise to fix it.

They would both stand in front of me, pledging vows of devotion and protection. That’s what they did before they let me go back to Monique’s room that morning. They swore on their lives they’d figure this out before Jacob Marsh ever gets close enough to hurt me, and I believed them.

It was easy to do when I was standing in the circle of their arms, but the moment I left them, my belief started to fade.

Not because I doubted their commitment to keeping me safe, but because my mind wouldn’t let me forget all the cards stacked against us.

The team they can’t trust. The investigation they’re trying to run with nothing but the help of one FBI contact they can’t get in touch with.

The staggering number of unanswered questions about Jacob’s plans for me and the size of his organization.

We know so much, and yet, so little, and it’s scary to be in the dark.

Scarier still to be fumbling through it without the only people I trust by my side.

I don’t know how their day off happened to align with the anniversary of AJ’s death, and the morning news segment Jordan committed me to, which she only thought to mention when we arrived in Detroit yesterday morning.

The thought of venturing out into the world without Cal and Beck left me unable to sleep, so I’m tired and cranky when I arrive at the news station.

Ayanna, the make-up artist, is a slight little thing with an effervescent glow about her and a work area filled with flowers.

She is gracious enough not to say a thing about the bags under my eyes as I lower myself into her chair.

“Can I get you some coffee or tea before we get started?”

“No, thank you.”

She turns to her station, selecting products while I dig my vibrating phone out of my purse.

I’m caught between the urge to smile and groan when I see Monique’s name on my screen.

There’s never a time when I’m not happy to talk to her, but she’s been on my nerves lately, asking questions about where I disappeared to on the last night of her visit.

I send the call to voicemail and make a mental note to return it later.

Of course, she refuses to be put off. She calls two more times, and I decline them both, then she sends me a text.

Monique: I know you see me calling you.

Selene: Obviously. I have my phone in my hand.

Monique: Then why aren’t you picking up?

Selene: Because I’m getting my makeup done for this stupid interview Jordan scheduled for me.

Ayanna’s touch is light as she rubs moisturizer into my skin. She’s a consummate professional, focused on her work, never once acknowledging the incessant buzzing.

Monique: You answer the phone when you’re on the toilet.

Monique: You don’t care about talking when you’re getting makeup done.

Monique: You’re avoiding me.

The texts come in so close together that I don’t have time to respond to one before another arrives for me to address.

Selene: You’re harassing me.

Monique: I’m your best friend. It’s my job to harass you.

I start to type out a text containing her actual job title and description, but she knows me too well.

Monique: Don’t send me my fucking job description, Sel.

Monique: Just tell me where you were the other night, and I’ll leave you alone.

The huff of frustration I let out does cause Ayanna’s brows to raise a bit, but she remains quiet. Regardless, I feel compelled to apologize for interrupting the peace of her workspace with all the noise.

“I’m sorry. It’s my best friend.”

“No worries,” she says, smiling. “You should hear my phone when the group chat I have with my friends is popping. I’ll put it down for five minutes and come back to a hundred messages.”

I shudder at the thought. “I would find that so overwhelming.” Holding up my phone, I say, “I find this overwhelming.”

“You could always mute her.”

“No.” I sigh. “She’s liable to get on a plane if I do that.”

“She sounds like a good friend.”

“She’s a great friend.”

Which is why I feel so bad about all the things I’m keeping from her.

I want to tell Monique about Cal and Beck, truly I do, but I know that one answer will only come with more questions, and then the thread of lies holding my life together will unravel completely.

That’s the kind of stress I don’t need right now, not when the danger feels more real now than it ever has.

Biting my lip and sending up a prayer that she’ll forgive me for one more lie, I type out a response to Monique.

Selene: I told you, I just took some time to clear my head. Time I wouldn’t have gotten to myself if it wasn’t for you. I’m sorry I don’t have a more satisfactory answer. I love you, and I’ll call you after the interview is done.

When the text goes through, I turn off my phone and put it back in my purse.

I leave it there even after Ayanna is done with my makeup, and I’m back in my dressing room with Agents Anderson and Harris standing outside my door.

Neither of them brings me the kind of comfort my men would, but I’m grateful to have them nonetheless.

They stay close and quiet, one of them escorting me to the stage while the other stays behind.

The lights on the stage are bright, nearly blinding me when I walk on.

One of the PAs instructs me to sit in the tall, rolling chair behind the counter next to a petite blonde with big hair and bigger teeth.

I’ve never seen her before, but she clearly knows me.

She holds out her hand, and I take it, holding it just long enough to appear polite before letting go.

“Mrs. Taylor, it’s an honor to meet you. I’m Ursula Upshaw, and I’ll be interviewing you for today’s segment.”

“Nice to meet you, Ursula.”

“Did you have a chance to look over the questions we sent over?”

“No, I didn’t receive them.”

I honestly thought they didn’t send any.

Frustration blooms in my chest as I wonder if Jordan has set me up somehow.

Then, I immediately dismiss the thought because I can’t see her purposefully leaving this interview to chance.

She doesn’t trust me at all, but she trusts the media even less, so the fact that I’m sitting in front of Ursula when she doesn’t have an approved question list, and I haven’t been reminded a million times what my answers should be, means something isn’t right.

Jordan is a lot of things, but she isn’t disorganized. She has been incredibly distracted lately, though, dropping balls I know she needs in the air. Maybe this is just one of them.

Ursula presses her lips together, beaming as she puts her hand over mine. “We are going to have so much fun.”

The interview is not fun.

Actually, it’s anything but, and I leave the stage thinking that Ursula Upshaw makes the sea witch look like a teddy bear.

She started out innocent enough, with questions about the campaign and my hopes as the Future First Lady, which was, predictably, used to segue into conversation about AJ’s death and my gun control stance.

After those were out of the way, though, she kept going, prolonging the segment in order to corner me into answering questions about the photos of Aubrey and Sutton that dropped when we were in Nevada.

I hadn’t commented on them publicly at all, and Ursula was practically bouncing out of her seat with pride at having gotten a coerced exclusive, where I assured her and the American people that Aubrey and I were stronger than ever.

The walk back to my dressing room is a blur of sound and movement that I’m not connected to.

I don’t know who’s behind me or in front of me, who’s speaking to me or trying to get my attention, all I know is I need to be alone.

Except when I am actually alone, my chest heaving with suppressed anger and my back pressed against the door, I realize that’s not exactly true.

I don’t need to be alone.

I need to be with them.

I need the deep, decadent pressure of Beck’s hug, and the tempered strength of Cal’s embrace. I need their touch, their eyes, their hands because I haven’t had it in days.

I wrap my arms around my middle, holding myself as tight as I can.

It’s a pale imitation of the real thing, but when I pair it with some square breathing, it works.

I come back into my body reluctantly. Blinking slowly, I take in my surroundings.

It’s a detached appraisal, and I’m not looking for anything specific, but then my eyes snag on the white box sitting on the vanity I didn’t have occasion to use.

Several slow seconds tick by before I approach it, noting the perfectly tied crimson bow wrapped around it.

The fabric is thick and lush when I rub it between my fingertips, and it gives easily when I pull at one of the ends, falling away from the box with a quiet whoosh to reveal a small white card with my name written on it in a swirling font.

Thinking it might be a gift from Ursula and the network for participating in this ambush of an interview, I move the card to the side and then lift the top.

The first thing that catches my attention is the red substance that looks so much like blood, it makes mine run cold. After I confirm the sticky, thick liquid isn’t blood, all of my focus goes to the photos it’s smeared all over.

Because I’m in every one.

Sometimes I’m alone, walking into Culture Code on a rainy day, or strolling down the path Aubrey and Sutton ruined for me in a summer dress.

Other times, I’m at lunch with Monique, waving goodbye to Diane as I leave the salon with my hair freshly done, arriving at hotels or events, with Cal or Beck holding the doors open for me.

There are several of us in front of the hotel in Atlanta, and I hold them close to my face with shaky hands stained with red, recognizing the outfit I was wearing on the day the formation was broken on the highway.

Knowing that we were being watched paints the already terrifying experience in a whole new light for me.

Usually, I’m comforted when my assumptions are confirmed with proof, but this isn’t one of those times.

This time, the proof makes me sick to my stomach.

This time, it sends threads of fear rippling through my gut, makes my brain scream for me to stop sorting through the box even as my fingers continue to move.

Carefully, I excavate every layer that serves as visual proof of an active threat, setting the pictures from my stalker aside until I’m staring at the bottom of the box. It’s empty save for the remnants of the fake blood and the card that says: SEE YOU SOON, HUMMINGBIRD.