Page 66 of The Illusion of Power (Passion and Politics #1)

SELENE

A gents Lennon and Monroe make quite an effective team.

Within twenty-four hours of arriving in Detroit, they find a burner phone among Agent Anderson’s things in the hotel room he was sharing with Agent Harris.

On it were texts that went back months, detailing everything from my daily routine to the frequency and duration of my hair appointments with Diane.

The burner was more than enough for them to take him in, but what really sealed his fate was the video footage from the news station that showed him leaving the green room unattended.

Moments after he left, the feed was cut, and it didn’t come back on for twenty minutes when he was back at his post.

I wish his removal from my orbit brought me peace, but it doesn’t.

Mainly because Anderson refuses to talk, except to vehemently deny his involvement with Marsh, so we still don’t know what he’s planning or when it will happen.

But also because I’m not as confident in the results of the investigation as everyone else seems to be.

Of course, I can’t express my lack of faith because it’s rooted completely in the agents’ inability to sniff out my most closely guarded secret.

Agent Lennon touched on it a bit when we sat down for my interview.

All of her questions at the beginning were centered around the bond I have with Cal and Beck.

She wanted to know how they became the people I trust most, if we had known each other before the detail was assigned, if there had ever been any instance of impropriety.

It was the oddest sensation, watching her face as I lied through my teeth, hoping she would believe me and being disappointed when she did.

That disappointment has lingered, morphing into anxiety-fueled questions centered on what else could have been missed during the short-lived investigation.

Those questions, but especially the lack of answers, are making it impossible for me to enjoy being back home without Aubrey, who flew to Georgia to attend some event with Cordelia when we all left Detroit yesterday.

They’re on my television screen right now, all dressed up and smiling, his arm around her shoulder, one of hers around his waist. It’s not exactly inappropriate—though I wouldn’t care if it was—but it’s not the distant professionalism you usually see in politicians from opposing parties.

Then again, nothing about their relationship suggests that they’re anything less than completely aligned on everything that matters.

Fed up with looking at and thinking about Aubrey and Cordelia, I turn the TV off.

I get to relish in the quiet around me for all of a minute before my phone starts to vibrate.

I pull it from between one of the lush cushions of the couch in the movie room I’ve been rotting on all day, smiling when I see that it’s Mama calling.

Our relationship has improved by leaps and bounds since she came to Las Vegas to see me.

We talk almost every day, sometimes it’s a quick text, others it’s a phone call, more often than not, though, it’s a FaceTime.

She says she prefers those to everything else, and as I swipe to accept the video call, I find that I agree.

“Hey, Mama,” I say, pulling my weighted blanket up around my chest. “How are you?”

“I’m good, baby. I’m glad to see you resting.”

She’s got me set up on a tripod that Robin or Jessica got her, so she can move around the kitchen while we talk. For all the time she spends telling me to sit down somewhere, she’s always moving around doing something.

“You should be resting too,” I tell her, eyeing her closely as she starts running dishwater. “Daddy can wash those dishes, or you can finally use the dishwasher for once.”

She dismisses my suggestion just like I knew she would, and I laugh, thinking of Beck. “Your daddy is in there watching the news. I got tired of looking at Aubrey and that white woman, so I came in here to get some peace.”

I have to hold this laugh back, knowing she’ll pounce on anything I do or say that suggests I’m unhappy with Aubrey.

“What did you cook?” I ask, switching gears.

“Fried pork chop, macaroni and cheese, some cabbage, and cornbread.”

“No candied yams?”

“Your daddy’s trying to cut back on the sweets.”

“You could have still made them. He just couldn’t have any.”

“Yeah, right,” Daddy shouts from the living room, making us laugh.

“Hey, Daddy!”

“Oh, no, traitor,” he hollers. “Don’t try to hey—OH MY GOD!”

The shock in his voice sends Mama running to the living room. She’s moving so fast she doesn’t even grab the phone, so I’m stuck asking what’s wrong until she comes back. Her face is a blur as she moves to the living room again.

“Mama, what’s?—”

She shushes me. “Albert, turn the volume up.”

An increase in volume does nothing to aid in my understanding of what’s going on, so I reach for my remote to turn the TV back on.

My mind is racing as I search the cushions and under my blanket.

All of my thoughts are on Aubrey. Mama said they were just watching him on the news, so whatever happened could have happened to him.

“Mama, is it?—”

Once again, I’m silenced, but it doesn’t matter now because I’ve found the remote.

I click the power button, and the TV takes its sweet time loading while I wonder what exactly I’d feel if something happened to Aubrey.

The truth is, I don’t know. The reality is, it doesn’t matter because the words scrolling across the screen don’t have anything to do with Aubrey, even though they will directly impact his future and mine.

President Lucas Sanders, dead at 72.

Two days after the President of the United States dies in his sleep, I’m decked out in a formal gown with my hair piled artfully on top of my head, wearing a pair of heels that aren’t meant for anything but walking from the house to the car and from the car to the dinner table because Aubrey refused to cancel the fundraiser.

A man is dead. The nation he was tasked with leading is aimless and confused.

His Vice President is scrambling to reassure the country and his party that he can lead.

His wife is now a widow. His children are fatherless.

His body is in a morgue, and I’m standing in front of a mirror, mentally preparing to spend my night socializing with a bunch of people who, like my husband, don’t care that a life and legacy have come to an abrupt end.

It’s not even that I liked the man all that much, or at all.

I’m just so unsettled by the way it doesn’t seem to matter to Aubrey at all.

His reaction to Sanders’ death was like his reaction to his hospitalization all those months ago, except so much worse.

There’s no sympathy or compassion, no care or concern, no genuine emotion.

No humanity. Just the stale breath of a dry mouth preparing for the thirst-quenching rush of power.

I can see it in him, the glee, the dangerous confidence that comes from knowing your victory is inevitable.

I hate it.

I hate him.

I hate the part of me that understands his excitement, that is already plotting on how to stay in close proximity to the power he’ll wield, hoping I can use it to my advantage.

A shudder rolls through me at the thought, half thrill, half disgust, and I turn away from the mirror, tired of looking at myself.

Since returning home, I’ve started sleeping in the in-law suite on the main floor.

It’s one of my favorite rooms in the house because of the large French doors that open to the patio and lead to the backyard.

What was once my favorite feature has now become a source of anxiety for me, though.

I keep lying in bed and picturing Jacob Marsh standing there, watching me.

The thought is a prevalent one, always at the front of my mind, which is why I nearly jump out of my skin when I see a large, looming figure on the other side of the glass.

My heart leaps into my throat, but I bury the scream between my lips when I realize it’s Beck looking at me. I rush to the door, unlock it, and pull him in. He comes down for a kiss as soon as we’re alone, his hands on my hips when I want them everywhere else.

“That one was from me,” he murmurs against my lips before bringing our mouths together again. This kiss is just as slow, just as decadent, just as full of love. “That one was from Cal.”

I smile so hard my cheeks hurt. The ridiculous grin stays in place even as he pulls away because the reward for allowing him to break contact is a square jewelry box that he takes from his pocket.

“This is from both of us,” he whispers, opening the box to reveal a gold, diamond-encrusted tennis bracelet.

I gasp, covering my mouth with one hand while he puts the bracelet on the opposite wrist. “Full transparency,” he says, onyx eyes serious as he fixes the clasp.

“This isn’t just a gift, it’s also a safety measure. ”

“A safety measure?” I repeat, squinting at the unassuming piece of jewelry.

“Yes, it has GPS capabilities that we’ve already turned on, so it’s transmitting your location to Cal and me in real time.

” He runs a finger over the flat gold disc dangling off the excess links.

“If you ever need us, and we’re not there, all you have to do is press down on this, and we’ll be alerted immediately. ”

It’s such a sweet and moving thing; I find myself getting emotional. With all the anxiety I’ve been feeling lately, my emotions live a lot closer to the surface these days, so I’m not surprised when the tears start to blur my vision.

Beck’s eyes stretch wide. “Don’t cry, gorgeous.

You’ll make me want to pick you up and take you away from all of this if you do that.

” I almost want him to. He cups my cheek, a gentle thumb brushing away a freshly fallen tear as he reads my mind with ease.

“We’re not cut out for a life on the run, baby. ”