Page 8 of The Illusion of Power (Passion and Politics #1)

“You can storm into my building and order around my employees, but you draw the line at calling me by my name. That’s great.

” I stride past him, my steps short, my spine straight, and he follows me out of the office, pausing right behind me when I stop at Nichelle’s desk. “Did you call for the car?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

I don’t thank her. I’m far too annoyed with this entire situation to be polite, too aware of the weight of Agent Beckham’s sharp gaze on the back of my neck to do anything but give her a curt nod and move to the elevator bank where another man in a black suit with a gun on his hip is waiting.

When he sees us approaching, he lifts his wrist, speaking into the microphone attached to his cuff before pressing the button to call up the elevator.

It’s not Agent Drake, which surprises me because I’ve never seen the two men apart. The thought distracts me from my anger at having my building invaded, but only for a moment.

“You should consider a private elevator,” Agent Beckham says, standing with his back to me and his eyes scanning the floor. “It’d be more efficient from a security standpoint.”

My foot taps impatiently, and I track the progress of the car via the numbers on the screen above us. “It’d also limit my interactions with the people who pass through this building on a daily basis for work, use of our co-working space, or to attend our coding academy.”

Interacting with most people is a painful experience for me, but that’s not true here.

The people who come into Culture Code are like me.

They value the work as much as I do, and they don’t take it personally when I’m too engrossed in a task to even utter a word or stop to eat.

I get them, and they get me. I’ve spent a long time searching for that kind of understanding, and I won’t give it up just because some gun in a suit says I should.

The elevator arrives with a ding that prompts him to spin around and step in front of me, blocking my view of the people pouring out of the parted doors.

When they’re all out, the other agent leans inside and does a cursory sweep of the space before nodding to Agent Beckham that it’s safe.

Once we’re inside, with him in front of me and the other agent at my back, he replies.

“The whole point of security is to minimize risk, which, yes, means limiting your interaction with the public. That’s not a bad thing. You’re too exposed here. It’s not safe.”

“We’ve never had so much as a misplaced package here, Agent Beckham. My building is perfectly safe.”

And the fact that he’d suggest it’s not makes me even more annoyed with him and this entire situation.

“You’ve never been the First Lady before, Mrs. Taylor; that comes with different risks.”

I cross my arms, giving myself a subtle squeeze to try and push down the sudden and persistent feeling that the walls are closing in on me.

“I’m not the First Lady right now.”

And if things keep going the way they’re going for Aubrey in the polls, I probably never will be.

He’s not recovering as quickly as Jordan would like, so the stress is on.

At this point, it never seems to turn off.

Everything, including this appearance I don’t want an escort to, is important.

A situation that could either make or break the campaign.

The pressure of it all is intense, but having a place to hide from it, a place where I can just be myself, has helped a lot.

It scares me to think I could lose it, that my safe place might be pried from my hands by someone who doesn’t understand what it will do to me to see it change in even the smallest way.

“But one day you might be,” he says, his tone flat. “It’s illogical to hide from the possibility and leave yourself at risk.”

My jaw drops. I don’t think I’ve ever been called illogical, and the word lands like a blow in the center of my chest, splitting my sternum and leaving the anger I’ve been holding in no choice but to come spilling out.

“Illogical is assuming that you or anyone else can predict the outcome of an election that’s still weeks away,” I grind out. “ Illogical is coming into a building where you weren’t invited and have no authority and assuming your suggestions would be honored or appreciated.”

The man behind me, who I now remember is Agent Harris, coughs and shifts on his feet like he can’t wait to be out of this small space and away from the hostility rolling between his partner and I.

The elevator finally arrives at the lobby floor, and when the doors pop open, I rush around Agent Beckham, intending to beat him to the exit and spare myself whatever response he’s cooking up.

Of course, my version of rushing is no match for his quick reflexes, and he catches me.

“ Mrs. Taylor ,” he barks, wrapping his hand around my wrist and pulling me back to keep me from passing through the doors. Agent Harris moves past us, probably stepping outside to secure the perimeter or something, while Agent Beckham and I glare at each other.

I pull my arm away, and his eyes flare with indignation. I’m not sure if it’s because I’ve left him with no choice but to release me or if it’s because he had to grab me in the first place.

“My apologies, ma’am.” He resumes the rigid stance he held in my office, which I’m realizing is as close to relaxed as he gets, and swallows. “You should always remain between agents whenever possible. I can’t keep you safe if you insist on breaking formation.”

“That’s just the thing, Agent Beckham. I don’t need you to keep me safe. I don’t need you here at all.” I turn on my heel and shove my way through the doors, heedless of the eyes on me or the glowering man at my back. All I want to do is get to my car and away from him.

Agent Harris’s cheeks are red, and his eyes are shifty when I come to a stop in front of him. He’s standing at my driver’s side door, blocking my entrance even though the engine is running and time is of the essence.

“Please move out of my way, Agent Harris.”

I try for calm, but I fail. My voice shakes with frustration and the need to be alone, to have a moment to decompress before my senses are overloaded with the snapping of cameras and the constant buzz of chatter that surrounds events like these.

“Mrs. Taylor—” Harris starts.

“Let her go, Wyatt,” Agent Beckham says from behind me, and it’s only then that he moves, clearing my path and closing the door once I’m safely inside.

Unlike everyone else today, I don’t wait for Agent Beckham’s approval before I pull away from the curb, easing my way into traffic without looking back to see if they’re following because I know they are.

There are more agents waiting for me at the hospital.

They greet me at the entrance, forming a tight circle around my body while reporters and photographers clamor for candid shots and sound bites they’ll spin and manipulate to fuel whatever narrative they’re peddling about me today.

I allow the men in black to lead me to a small conference room, where Jordan and Aubrey are waiting, along with Alexis Ritter, the head of the hospital, and a group of other people I don’t bother to identify.

They all look up when I enter the room, but only Aubrey stands.

I’m shocked by the small gesture of civility, and even more stunned when he crosses the room and holds his arms open, allowing me to decide if I want to step into them or not.

Today has been a lot, and it’s not even noon yet, so I stand there for a moment, staring at the arms I’ve needed and been deprived of for far too long, and then sinking into his embrace.

He squeezes me hard, applying a perfect pressure that instantly regulates my nervous system.

A memory hits me, taking me back to the first time I asked him to hug me like this.

It was my senior year at Stanford, and finals had me spiraling in the worst way.

All I wanted was one of my daddy’s bear hugs, and all I had was Aubrey and his willingness to try to replicate it.

Over the years, he perfected it, learning how tight to hold me and for how long.

Eventually, he got to the point where he could take one look at me and know that I needed one.

Before this very moment, I assumed that knowledge, or at least the desire to act on it, had been lost somewhere in the sordidness of the affair.

But now Aubrey is silently communicating to me that it hasn’t, and that brings tears to my eyes.

My arms circle his waist, and I nuzzle into his neck, melting at the physical contact.

I can’t remember the last time he hugged me like this, and I can’t bring myself to care that it might only be happening because we’re in a room full of potential voters who are eager to buy into the image Jordan wants us to sell.

“Are you okay?” he whispers into my ear, his voice tender.

“I am now.”

Aubrey pulls back, and my heart sinks at the loss of proximity, thinking the moment is over. But he surprises me again, keeping his arms around me as he makes eye contact with someone, probably Jordan, over my head.

“Give us the room, please.”

All at once, everyone is on their feet and moving out the door, leaving us alone.

“Thank you for being here,” he murmurs, sending another wave of shock rolling through me as he urges my head back to his chest.

“Jordan didn’t exactly give me a choice.”

“She didn’t give me one either. I told her I hate hospitals, and she told me to suck it up.”

“She’s been spending too much time around your dad. I’m pretty sure that’s what he told AJ when he said he was scared to get his tonsils removed.”

Aubrey snorts, and I bury my smile in the crisp lines of his white button-up, relishing in the sound of his heartbeat, strong and sure, in my ear. The levity of the moment, the lightness of a fond memory of AJ, won’t last long. I know that. There’s just too much left unsaid between us.

“This is nice,” he says, rocking me back and forth a little. “It’s been too long since you let me hold you.”

Sensing the moment slipping away from us, I untangle myself from his hold. “It’s been too long since you’ve wanted to hold me.”

He runs his fingers through his hair, exasperation written into the lines of his face. “I always want to hold you, Sel. You asked me to leave our bed.”

Every negative emotion he soothed with his touch comes rushing back to the surface.

I don’t know why he’s choosing today of all days to broach this topic when he’s spent weeks avoiding it, but I’m not going to shy away from it.

I want to talk about it. I need to. It’s the only way I’ll be able to heal.

“Don’t do that, Aubrey. Don’t make it seem like I just woke up one day and kicked you out of our room. I asked you to leave because you?—”

His hands fly up, palms facing outward in a show of surrender. “I know. I know.” He closes the space between us, taking my face in his hands and staring into my soul with blue eyes that were designed to turn me into a puddle. “I know what I did, and I’m sorry, Sel.”

The pads of his thumbs run gentle lines over my cheeks. “And you deserve so much better than this rushed moment, this short apology. I know that. You deserve a real conversation, and I want to give that to you. I will give that to you. I promise.”

I’m stunned into silence.

This is the first time he’s apologized since the news of him and Sutton broke. And as much as I appreciate it, as much as I want to soak it all in, I can’t stop my brain from screaming: why now?

Before the thought can find life on my lips, my heart whispers: Does it matter?

And I decide in an instant that no, it doesn’t matter at all.