Page 24 of The Senator's Secret

He lets go of his hold on the back of my neck, and I drop down to my elbows, hoping they hold me up. My breath saws in and out of my chest as his phone stops ringing and then starts up again. His fingers stop moving but he holds them tight inside of me as he uses his free hand to pull his cellphone out of his pants pocket.

“Chancellor,” he answers and listens to whoever it is on the other end of the line while he stares at his hand on my body. “This better be good, Rick.”

I feel my spine go straight and my body go cold at the mention of his political mercenary, Rick Donovan. Chief of Staff is too nice of a description to use for a viper like Rick, and everyone knows it.

“Yeah,” he answers something that Rick asks. “I’ll be right there.”

I close my eyes tight as he pulls his fingers from my core. I refuse to look at him. I can’t. And if he cared for me at all as a human being, he would understand that.

“Look at me, Grace,” he says, his voice low and rough. I should have known better. Jacob Chancellor can’t let me have anything. I’m just a plaything. “I have to go.”

“I figured as much.” I’m surprised my voice sounds as relatively normal as it does.

“This isn’t finished,” he adds. He eyes me ferociously as he forces his hard cock down the front of his slacks before rebuckling his belt. I don’t trust myself to say anything, so I just nod once hoping that is enough for him. It’s apparently not, because he grips my chin tight between his thumb and forefinger, which still smell like my arousal, and he kisses me hard.

And then he strolls from the room fully clothed like the king of his domain, which of course he is. And I am left exposed and cold and, as always, alone, an afterthought. If I needed a sign to set me back on the right course, this was it in neon glowing letters. This bucket of cold water thrown in my face was exactly what I needed to remind me that companionable distance is the only answer, because Jacob Chancellor will not ever care for me or consider my feelings. I am nothing to him but a piece of property, a toy to be discarded when he’s done with me, or more than likely broken me.

So, I do the only thing I can; I pull myself up off the counter. I pick up my clothes from where he threw them around the room. I do not look at the prep island where he mastered my body like no one ever has before and without a doubt never will again. I just walk quietly up the stairs, where I take a quick shower and throw on a pair of pajamas. I walk down the hall counting doors until I find a furnished bedroom as far away from the master suite as possible and claim it as my own. I lock the door behind me and climb into bed.

And I did all of this without knowing that as he walked away from me without a backward glance, he did so with complete regret for having to leave me and climbed into a town car to drive him to his destination with his thoughts completely turned to me.

Instead, I cried myself to sleep, and my final thought before darkness finally claimed me was that I can’t let this happen again.

“A Certain Senator and His Lady are Playing House.”

Chapter 7

Pieces of me

Rain hits the window with a clatter. The light of the gray, gloomy day peeks through the curtains. It takes me a minute to realize where I am. Like somewhere along the way, I dreamed all this—Jacob, the blackmail photos, his proposition of a marriage of convenience, and then the way he used me and discarded me. Only now I realize this never-ending nightmare is my life.

I swipe my cell from the nightstand and look at the time. It’s way earlier than I would usually get up. The cats aren’t even bothering me, begging for breakfast yet. Guilt pools in my belly. When I locked Jacob out last night, I also locked out my babies after they were forced to move to a new home. I didn’t think I could feel any lower than I had before, but it like seems I always am lately. I was wrong.

I toss the covers back and push up from the bed. I would stay in this room forever if I could—no, that’s a lie. If I could, I would leave this house and never come back. But the paparazzi waiting and watching outside on the street made this already untenable situation even worse. Hopefully, it’s so early that Jacob is still asleep in his bed. I don’t want to see him this morning. I can’t play it cool. I already showed my hand by hiding away in here instead of going to sleep in his bed like he demanded and showing him indifference. I’ve always been my own worst enemy.

I take a deep breath and open the bedroom door, cringing at how loud the hinges sound in the quiet hallway. I look both ways like a startled child crossing the road. I don’t see him, but that doesn’t mean the not-so-good senator isn’t lying in wait somewhere, ready to throw my own failings in my face.

I scurry down the hallway to the bathroom and turn the taps to let the water heat up. I lean over the sink and get my face as close to the mirror as possible. If Quasimodo had a little sister, she would look just like I do right now. My face is red and blotchy, and my eyes are swollen and puffy. Seriously, if I saw me on the street right now, I’d think I needed and EpiPen and a bottle of Benadryl. To put it bluntly, I look like shit.

I strip out of my clothes and place them on the bathroom counter so I can gather them up later and put them in my hamper for Sunday Laundry Day. It’s a thing. And it was my thing before the guys fromJersey Shoremade it theirs.

I step into the shower in the guest bathroom and let the hot water pour down my body, letting my muscles loosen up one by one. I’m still not ready to see Chancellor yet so I don’t go into the master bedroom where I put all of my things when I was busy pretending that the sexy senator loved me and his dimples and penis were for me alone. I pour shampoo into my hand and want to cry when I notice it smells decidedly feminine. Not that it wouldn’t have been worse to smell that smell that can only be Jake Chancellor, but to know I’m using another woman’s—the real one’s—toiletries feels even worse. He might not belong to one woman, but Ashley Jeffries has made her mission to become his FLOTUS a public one. I’ve never been the other woman before, and I have to admit it doesn’t make me feel all that great about myself.

I finish my shower quickly and shut the water off. I don’t feel any better than I did before. Actually, I might feel worse. I dry off and wrap the towel around my body before I brush my teeth. I blow dry my hair with a big round brush so the ends flip in a soft curl and pin the sides back before carefully applying my makeup. I grab my clothes from the night before and sneak back down the hall.

Even though my world is probably ending any day now, it’s still a workday, and I need to keep pretending until it all explodes in my face, and then I’ll have to change my identity and move to Costa Rica. I was pretty decent at high school Spanish, so it’s a legitimate plan. The cats and I can spend our days catching fresh fish.

But until then, I just have to keep on keepin’ on.

I pull on a pair of lace panties and a matching bra before letting a black silk V-neck blouse drop down over my head. I step into a pleated silk skirt that hits at my knees and is covered in a pastel paisley pattern. I sit down on the bed and roll a pair of nude, lace-topped thigh-highs up my legs before letting my skirt drop back into place as I stand up and step into my black Louboutins. My diamond earrings and bracelet are currently accompanied by my silver Bulova watch my parents bought me for my college graduation, sitting on the dressing table in Jake’s personal bedroom. So, I’m heading to work today for the first time ever without them. I just can’t make myself go in there and claim them.

So instead, I make my way downstairs to the kitchen. I see the cat bowls where Carter and I stacked them yesterday. Was it only yesterday afternoon that I felt like, with a plan, I could see this mission through without losing pieces of myself along the way? How painfully naïve I was, but I know better now.

I lay them out on the counter like I always do and start cracking cans of cat food. By the time I’m done dishing it out, they’re all lined up on the floor, watching me. I set the bowls on the floor two at a time, offering pets to each as I go.

When I’m done, I search the pantry for something I shouldn’t want—sugary cereal—but Jake’s cabinets are all full of things like Raisin Bran and Corn Flakes, and not even the frosted kind. I’m living with a monster. I pour some Corn Flakes into a bowl and then enough sugar on top to more than make up for the frosting. It’s all part of my vow to gain forty pounds so no man will find me attractive any more. Men are nothing but trouble. My mom always said it was a lesson that could only be learned the hard way, and I like to think I just learned that lesson tenfold. I cover the whole thing with milk and give it a stir before carrying it to the small table in the corner of the kitchen.

I sit in a wooden chair and mindlessly spoon cereal into my mouth. I’m not hungry. I can never eat much when I’m upset, unless I’mreallyupset, and then I eat everything in sight. But this isn’t one of those times. I need to fuel my body to get through the day. That’s it. I just have to keep going. And then eventually I will find my way out of this mess. I hope.