Page 79 of Blind Prophet

The same word that kicked off a new phase of life, the word I had uttered when he asked me to marry him, ended our marriage. But it wasn’t just the word. It was the culmination of our relationship. The cold finality. The unspoken agreement between Dorian and his father.

Yes, the prenup is ironclad. Yes, that’s all that matters.

“Caroline, are you okay?”

I flinch from the unexpected pressure on my arm, and he withdraws his hand. He pushes a button, and the garage door rolls down behind us.

Wordlessly, I push forward into the house. It’s been a long time since I’ve thought about that day.

I pull out my phone and tap out a text while walking.

Me:

Halston Moore suffers from dementia.

I could add that this removes him as a person of interest, but there’s no need. Sophia will understand.

The door closes behind me, and I focus on my breathing to clear the negative emotions. The past is the past.

“What did I say?”

His eyes are coated with concern, but the words are cautionary, a reminder that how I answer might place him on the defensive.

“You didn’t say anything.” The lie is automatic. There’s no need to dredge up the past.

He takes my hand and leads me to one of the leather sofas in the great room. It’s a stunning room, and the size exacerbates the chill infiltrating my skin.

Dorian refreshes the hearth, his back to me. I use the moment to scan the room, cataloging the cameras I’ve already spotted—three discrete units disguised in the canned lighting. Dorian has always valued his privacy. I expect that any interior security system is employed when he’s not home. He wouldn’t want someone watching him in his home. No, his security team is likely limited to using perimeter monitoring when he’s home.

He joins me on the sofa and reaches for my hand.

My gaze falls to where we touch, and I fight the urge to yank my hand away.

“I didn’t always defend you.” He studies me, gauging if he guessed correctly. “I should have. But I was under a lot of pressure. I realize I didn’t handle it well.”

“Please.” The smile across my face feels false, bitter, and sad. “Every photo from back then showed a happy-go-lucky guy. Everybody’s friend. You ate up all the attention.”

“That’s not fair. I smiled for the camera. I played the game.”

“And it paid off.” My heart is heavy, but there’s no point in fighting. I didn’t play the game well, and it frustrated him. It’s behind us, and rehashing our actions won’t change the past. “You’re being considered for chief of staff.” I force a brightness, wiggling my fingers in a jazz hands movement to emphasize the greatness. “A stepping stone to the White House. That’s amazing.”

He denied he wanted to follow in his uncle’s footsteps, but clearly, he lied.

“It’s an influential position. A possibility, but it’s not something I’m actively seeking. I’m skeptical. I don’t have the stomach to play the political game.”

“Come on. You don’t get considered for chief of staff without working for it.”

His jaw flexes ever-so-slightly, the shift almost imperceptible.

“I probably shouldn’t admit this to you, given what you do.”

My spine stiffens, but at the same time, my pulse quickens at the prospect of valuable information.

“The only reason I tossed my hat in for consideration is to drum up contracts for Zenith.”

“Won’t you have to step aside from any conflicts of interest if you take a post in the administration?”

“Decades ago, yes. Not now.”

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