Page 7 of The Illusion of Power (Passion and Politics #1)

SELENE

E ven on the worst days of my marriage, of which there have been a lot of late, I have never been able to picture myself outside of Aubrey’s orbit.

Our lives are too intertwined, our vision for this country too similar, and our grief far too familiar.

So when Jordan pushed me to leave him, I knew, just like she did, that I wouldn’t.

That I can’t.

And it doesn’t have anything to do with love or jealousy, although something ugly and bitter had unfurled inside of me at the mention of Sutton taking my place as Aubrey’s First Lady. No, my reason for staying, like everything else in my life, is about my son.

There are memories I have of AJ that I only share with Aubrey.

Like watching the lines on every test turn pink, still not believing it was real, and going to the doctor to do blood work and confirm. Aubrey had paced endlessly, his fingers raking through his hair, leaving tunnels of angst I smoothed over again and again.

I can’t even put a number on the amount of times I performed that same soothing motion over the short years AJ was alive.

Aubrey was always the emotion-driven worrier, while I was the solid, steady one who leaned on statistics and logic.

We made a great team, balancing the demands of raising our son together, and now, carrying the sweet, suffering burden of remembering.

It’s too much for one person to hold on their own, and I need Aubrey’s hands. I need his strength, his pain, and his understanding.

I need him .

Because at his side, and before things went bad, in his arms, are the only places I feel safe enough to wade into the murky waters of grief, the only places I know I can let myself sink into the memories of AJ’s smile, the sound of his laughter, the weight of his little body wriggling on my chest the day he was born, and trust that I’ll be pulled out before I drown.

And if I walk away from Aubrey, if I lose him, then I’ll lose AJ all over again because I’ll never be strong enough to visit those places on my own.

I try to explain this to Monique when our weekly one-on-one turned, as it always does, into a conversation about our personal lives, but she doesn’t get it.

Her eyes should be focused on the reports spread out in front of her that say the delayed launch of the facial recognition software has tanked our fourth quarter projections and probably will prevent us from hiring the one hundred and fifty Black women who just graduated from our in-house coding academy but instead they’re squeezed tight as she lets out an exasperated sigh.

“So let me get this straight, you’re staying with Aubrey so you can suffer together?”

“That seems like an oversimplification.”

With her eyes open and on my face, she rubs at the wrinkle forming between her brows.

“Is it, though? You’ve basically just told me you don’t want to leave Aubrey because he’s the only one you can grieve AJ with, which is a lie, by the way.

I miss him too. I will grieve with you. I have grieved with you. ”

Her lips tremble a bit, the way they always do when she speaks about her godson, and I feel bad for striking a nerve even if I don’t fully understand which one I’ve hit.

“I know that.” I reach out for her, offering my hand because years of friendship have taught me physical contact helps soothe her in more emotional moments, especially when I’m out of my depth.

“I didn’t mean to suggest that Aubrey is the only person.

I know he’s not. I just—” I sigh, hoping the words will find me.

“He’s his father, Mo. I look at Aubrey and I see him.

The man he would have grown into if his life hadn’t been cut short.

It’s like glimpsing into a future I’ll never get to see. ”

“Or shackling yourself to a past that might destroy you,” she returns, squeezing my fingers to soften the blow of her reproach.

“You don’t need Aubrey to remember AJ. You’re his mother, Sel.

Everything he is, everything he could have been, started with you, and it still lives in you. He still lives in you.”

I blink away tears as her words wash over me, but refuse to soak into the battered flesh of my heart. They can’t because they feel all wrong on my skin.

“Thank you for saying that.”

“You’re welcome.”

Monique pulls away, reluctantly accepting that I’m past the point of absorbing her kindness because she knows me as well as I know her. Maybe even a little better.

“Don’t you need to be leaving?” she asks, gathering up the reports scattered across the table and placing them in a folder.

Frowning, I glance at my watch and, seeing that it’s nearly eleven, push to my feet.

Monique rises too. She has a full day of meetings ahead of her, and I have to leave the office to attend an appearance with Aubrey at Children’s National Hospital in the district.

I push down the annoyance bubbling in my chest at having my day cut short in service of Aubrey’s campaign.

I’ve repeatedly asked his team not to schedule things during my work day, but they have yet to comply.

They don’t seem to know or care about my endeavor to create space between my life as Selene Taylor, CEO, and Selene Taylor, future First Lady.

“Will you let me know how the shareholder meeting goes?” I ask Monique as she makes her way to the door.

“You got it, boss,” she says jokingly, breezing out the door as my assistant, Nichelle comes through it.

“I already know I need to be leaving,” I say, hurrying over to my desk to grab my purse and phone. “Can you have them bring my car around front?”

“Umm.” Nichelle bites her lip, glancing over her shoulder at something or someone I can’t see.

“About that—” she starts before taking several more steps into the office, making room for the imposing presence of Agent Beckham in my doorway.

He doesn’t linger there, though. He keeps moving, making an anxious-looking Nichelle step further into the room with nothing but the force of his will.

At the sight of him, I immediately straighten. Suddenly, I understand why Nichelle looks out of sorts. Why she’s stumbling through an explanation about not knowing if she should call down for my car because Agent Beckham said he’s here to take me to the event.

I hold up a hand, silencing her unnecessary explanation. “Please call for my car, Nichelle.”

For the first time in all of her years in my employ, Nichelle hesitates to honor my request. Wide brown eyes shift between me and the agent, and she actually looks more stressed about disappointing him than me.

I can’t say that I blame her. Agent Beckham is formidable.

He stands a few away from Nichelle, his long legs shoulder-width apart.

His arms folded in front of him, onyx eyes sweeping over the room before landing on my face.

“That won’t be necessary, Ms. Durant,” Agent Beckham says, addressing her without looking away from me. “You’ll be riding with me, Mrs. Taylor.”

“No, I won’t. I drove here, and I don’t have any intentions of leaving my car.”

Of being left with no choice but to ride back home with Aubrey.

“I have orders to bring you to the hospital, ma’am. If you’d like, I can have another agent pick up your vehicle and bring it back to the residence.”

“I would like to be on my way to this speaking engagement instead of standing here arguing with you about something as trivial as me driving myself. I drove into work just a few hours ago. What’s changed between now and then?”

Surely, it’s not an active threat or anything of that nature. If that were the case, someone would have told me. Jordan’s assistant would have reached out to Nichelle, or Aubrey would have broken the silence in our text message thread to let me know something was up.

At least, I hope he would.

Agent Beckham blinks, his expression still. “I’m just following orders, ma’am.”

“And I appreciate that, but this—” I gesture around the room, indicating the building at large before continuing, “—is my domain, and that means I’m the one giving the orders, not blindly following them.

” I narrow my eyes at Nichelle, trying to quell the anger burning its way up my throat because she doesn’t deserve to have it aimed in her direction.

“ Please place the call for my car. Tell them I’ll be down in five minutes. ”

To my surprise and annoyance, Nichelle looks to Agent Beckham, waiting for the slight incline of his head before she scurries out of the room. I roll my eyes, gripping the edge of the desk while he stares at me.

“Why are you here?”

His jaw clenches, and I know he has to be tired of repeating himself. “To escort you to your scheduled appearance, ma’am.”

“Selene,” I insist, even though at this particular moment I don’t really care what he calls me because I don’t want him here.

I told Aubrey, Jordan and Agent Daniel Hicks, the man in charge of our Secret Service detail, that I didn’t want agents in the building.

Up until today, they’ve respected that wish, but now that respect seems to have flown out the window, and it dawns on me that it’s happening now, just a day after my conversation with Jordan.

She probably orchestrated this, sending Agent Beckham here as a proxy—a tall, frustratingly handsome pawn in her power play.

Just the thought of it has me digging my nails into the bottom side of my desk, threatening to ruin my manicure, which would only give Jordan another thing to harp on when she starts breathing down my neck about showing up late.

He shakes his head, a silent refusal to grant my request to use my first name, and I huff out a sharp laugh before grabbing my things and rounding the desk.