Page 40 of Love Her

“Oh, no,” Marcus said, with a head shake. “It needs to happen before the election.”

“Before…November?” That was just three weeks away. “Are you insane?”

Marcus’s lawyer returned, and handed papers over to Trevia—and then a separate binder to me. “This is Senator St. Clair’s social calendar between now and the election. As you’ll see, we’ve already blocked out your father’s birthday party in a week—but your wedding will be the weekend after.”

I was more flabbergasted by that than the pre-nup. “Is there something going on that I don’t know?” I asked, out of genuine concern.Just how fast was my father dying, anyhow?“And—I have work to do.” Just because Corvo’s IPO was going swimmingly didn’t mean I could take my foot off the gas.

“You do. But not for your father—for me. You won’t set foot into Corvo again.”

His lawyer saved me from making a scene by offering me a pen, which I took, so that I would have a weapon. “Why?” I asked, my voice going shrill.

“I need you to be my beautiful bride. The woman who reminds voters that I know what young people want.”

“Like not to be married off to their grandfather?” I said, but Marcus brushed it away, without looking wounded in the least.

“You have poise, and charisma, and I’ve heard you speak—I’ve seen you on TV,” the senator continued. “Right now there’s a swath of voters who will vote for me just because my name is on the ballot—but a perhaps even bigger swath of them who currently find me unrelatable, or who need to be reminded that I exist. A wedding to a beautiful, notable young woman will get my name on TV every night for the next three weeks. Latenight talk shows will make fun of me and horny morning DJs will be jealous—but by the time we get to ignore your particular morality clause, Lia, everyone will knowmyname—and be dying to book rooms at your father’s new casino, the second it opens.”

Another man joined us, this time a man around fifty, with wireframe glasses, emerging from another fucking hidden door—this club was like a hellish version of Willy Wonka’s factory, only all the Ooompa Loompas wore suits. He presented me with a binder full of more paper, with even more tabs.

“These are the senator’s positions on most major policies. You’ll need to memorize them quickly—the press will ask you questions,” he said, before even announcing his name. “Arnold, St. Clair media policy.”

“And what if we disagree?” I asked him.

“Then you tell voters whatever they want to hear. That mouth of yours was made for speeches,” he said, with a revolting wink.

I should’ve gotten a ‘no winking’ clause into the pre-nup.

I sank back with a sense of dismay as the mantle I had to wear until Rhaim somehow saved me settled on my shoulders. “And in addition to raising your presence—I’m your way to play both sides of the board.”

“Convincing women you can change my mind through the power of love,” Marcus said, giving me a leer that spoke of nothing of the sort—and I felt acid inside my stomach beginning to revolt.

“I’ve got you scheduled for an interview with Katrina Vale on Morning Moment at 7 am tomorrow,” Arnold said, then looked at my current outfit with disdain. “Which is luckily after we get you to a fitting this afternoon,” he said, looking to Marcus for confirmation.

“Money is no object,” Marcus told his man, without taking his eyes off of me.

21

RHAIM

Ifound myself at a place I thought I’d never be again at eleven am on Sunday.

Right outside a church.

I heard the organ on the inside go through the last warbles of Agnus Dei before the doors opened, releasing a few hundred parishioners into the wild—but I was only scanning the crowd for one of them, Milo Ventaggeti—and when I spotted him, he spotted me.

I watched him kiss a woman, presumably his wife, and then head my direction, giving me a gesture that I should walk beside him, that any business we might partake in wouldn’t happen on consecrated ground.

“It’s been awhile, Rhaim.”

“It has,” I agreed. The last time I’d seen Milo had been fifteen years ago when I’d been applying pressure like a motherfucker to a gap a .45 had blown in the femoral of his right thigh. If we hadn’t been close to the Doctor’s services and I hadn’t been watching the thing go down, he wouldn’t have made it—a fact we were both well aware of. “You doing okay?”

“Presently, yes,” he said, finally stopping, patting himself down for a smoke before offering one over to me, which I took him up on. “Although ask me again, when you’re through.”

“I promise this’ll be easy. I just can’t be seen working the corners anymore.”

“You’ve got a business to uphold. I get it,” he said, giving a slight nod.

And he couldn’t actually complain—the firefight we’d been in that night had given him control over the warehouses he needed for his labs to run. After that, he bought out Nero’s interest in his game, and the men had walked their separate ways, Nero into Corvo’s legally approved profitability, and Milo into maintaining his control over the club circuit. He’d been a ruthless dick at first—I had heard rumors, and I knew he had to be—but right now his situation should’ve been prime. He didn’t give a shit about opioids or meth, and cocaine and party drugs were going nowhere but up.

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