Page 36 of Saint
I sip the bourbon, savoring its burn. “Perhaps. But I’m a monster who’s kept you in power. Who’s made you wealthy beyond your mediocre talents? Who’s disposed of enemies you didn’t even know you had.” I set down the glass. “And now I’m the monster who’s going to be your son-in-law.”
Jackson stares at me, defeat written across his features. “What do you want me to tell Jill? The press?"
“The truth,” I say simply. “That your daughter has fallen in love with a respected businessman and philanthropist. That you couldn’t be happier about the match.” I straighten my cuffs.“We’ll announce the engagement formally next week. I expect you and Jill to attend the party and appear supportive.”
He nods numbly, already calculating how to spin this to his advantage. Politicians are nothing if not adaptable.
“One more thing,” I add, moving toward the door. “If you ever try to turn Lily against me or interfere in our relationship, our arrangement is over. And I’ll make sure everyone knows exactly what kind of man their Governor really is.” I pause, hand on the doorknob. “Are we clear?”
"Crystal,” he mutters.
I step back into the hallway to find Lily waiting, a small overnight bag clutched in her hands. Her eyes are wide, searching mine for answers.
“Ready?” I ask, offering my arm.
She takes it, her grip tight. “What did you say to him?"
“I reminded him that happiness comes in many forms,” I reply smoothly, leading her toward the front door. “And that your happiness is what matters most.”
It’s not entirely a lie. Her happiness does matter to me—more than I expected it would. But she doesn’t need to know everything yet. There will be time for that, for her to understand the full extent of who I am and what I do.
For now, it’s enough that she’s coming with me willingly, stepping into my world with those trusting blue eyes and eager body. I’ll corrupt her slowly, carefully, until she’s as much a part of my darkness as I am.
The butler appears with her coat, his face carefully blank. The staff always knows more than they let on. I help Lily into it, my fingers lingering on the nape of her neck.
“What about the dinner guests?” she asks quietly.
“They don’t matter,” I tell her, guiding her toward the door. “Nothing matters except us now.”
As we step outside into the cool night air, I feel her shiver against me—from cold or anticipation, I can’t tell. My car waits at the bottom of the steps, engine running.
“Are you sure about this?” I ask her, pausing before we descend. It’s the only moment of doubt I’ll allow myself. The only chance I’ll give her to back out.
She looks up at me, those blue eyes reflecting the mansion’s lights. "I’m sure about you,” she says simply.
It’s enough. More than enough.
I lead her down the steps toward my waiting car, toward New York, toward the life I’ve planned for us. Behind us, the Governor’s mansion glows with wealth and power—power I helped build, power I can just as easily destroy.
But tonight isn’t about destruction. Tonight is about possession. About claiming what’s mine.
And Lily Moore, with her innocent eyes and eager body, is most definitely mine.
Chapter 23
Lily
Two Months Later
I never thoughtI’d marry a man who could make a room full of New York’s elite hold their breath, but as I enter the grand ballroom of the Plaza Hotel on Luca’s arm, that’s precisely what happens. Three hundred faces turn toward us in unison, champagne flutes frozen midway to parted lips, diamonds glittering under crystal chandeliers that hang like frozen fireworks above us. The space falls silent for a heartbeat before erupting into applause that echoes off the gilded ceiling.
“Mayor and First Lady Ravello!” someone announces from somewhere near the string quartet, and the title slides across my skin like cool silk, foreign and thrilling and terrifying all at once, like a couture gown with a price tag I’d rather not see.
Luca’s hand tightens possessively around my waist, his fingers splayed across the beaded bodice, his towering six-foot-three frame making me feel like a porcelain doll despite the twenty-pound train of Swarovski-crusted satin trailing behind me. His lips, warm and firm, brush against the shell of my ear, his cologne—sandalwood and something darker—enveloping me as he whispers, “You look stunning, Mrs. Ravello.”
The way he says my new name sends shivers down my spine, reminding me of all the promises whispered between sheets.
My parents approach first, their practiced political smiles firmly in place—the same expressions they wear for campaign photos and charity galas. My mother’s Chanel perfume envelops me as she hugs me with arms that tremble slightly against the beaded bodice of my gown.
