Page 154 of Theirs to Possess: The Marriage Claim

And yet… Can our mother possibly be as clueless as we were? Or is she pretending so her world doesn’t crash down around her?

“I need to think about it.” The world is spinning, and the atmosphere is suddenly so thick that I can hardly breathe. “Give me some time to talk to—” I almost say my men, but I stop myself. “Dorian and Brennan.” After all, I’m very much aware that any scandal my dad is involved with could ruin my husband’s political aspirations.

Stalling for time while I gather my thoughts, I smooth my dress.

When I feel somewhat composed, I look at my sister. “How about we talk again tomorrow?”

She nods. “It feels wrong to keep this quiet. But…”

All too well, I know what Margaux means, even though she doesn’t finish her sentence. “I’ll give you a call.”

The barista swings by, and I ask for the check.

“I can get it.” Margaux blushes furiously. “Or at least pay for my own. Let’s split the bill.”

“My treat.” My men have given me a credit card with a ridiculous limit on it, and I know what it’s like to live on asevere budget. I’m sure my parents have cut her off from her trust fund. Those are only for good girls who follow their rules.

We chat for a few more minutes, and then we head for the door.

Outside, beneath the sail-shaped canopy that casts some much needed shade over the patio, we give each other a heartfelt hug.

No matter what happens, we’re still sisters, and there’s a bond there, even if it is a little shaky.

Finally she steps back. “Take care of yourself.”

“You too.” Unable to resist, I hug her again.

We both linger for a few seconds before going our separate ways.

I’ve only taken a few steps when a wiry man with a video camera jumps in front of me, blocking my path.

My stomach plunges, and I frantically look around for an escape. Why had I so stubbornly refused to have a driver?

Heart pounding, I ignore the man and move off the sidewalk to get around him.

“Mrs. Vale! Mrs. Vale!”

I walk as fast as my stupid heels will allow, brushing the sides of cars to stay out of oncoming traffic as I ignore him.

But he jogs ahead and steps out from between two parked vehicles making me stop.

“Any comment on the death of Lena Ludwig?”

My spine locks. I don’t know what to say, what to do. The video is rolling, and I’m frozen in place, my eyes wide and shocked.

I’m aware of a crowd gathering round us, and other people raising their phones to take pictures.

“What about your husband’s involvement in the whole mess? Any comment, Mrs. Vale?”

Suddenly Brennan’s there.

One moment I’m blinking into the sunlight, and the next, his hand slams down over the camera, smashing it to the sidewalk. Glass splinters and pieces scatter beneath vehicles.

After protectively moving in front of me, Brennan looms close to the man, voice low and menacing, fist curled into an unmistakable threat. “If you know what’s good for you, you’ll get the fuck away from her while you still can.”

The reporter stumbles back, muttering.

Then, seemingly regretting the show of that much bravado, he dashes to the sidewalk and breaks into a sprint, leaving behind the sound of retreating footsteps that I barely hear over the pulse pounding in my ears.