Page 112 of Theirs to Possess: The Marriage Claim
“This isn’t messy,” Isla says. “It’s family. You”—she holds Everett’s gaze then looks at Celeste—”and you are experts at spin. He’s a bodyguard. Make it believable. Or is my husband wasting his money with you two?”
Damn.
Brennan’s hand finds Isla’s under the table, and he brushes her knuckles. The air shifts, binding the three of us tighter than ever.
Celeste sips her tea, her eyes gleaming, like she’s savoring the tension. “Let’s move on.”
“To the rest of this shit?” Everett asks after hooking a thumb toward the file folder.
With a delicate clink of fine china on fine china, Celeste insists, “It’s not insurmountable.”
“But it’s a long fucking uphill climb.”
“We have advantages.” She turns her calculating smile on my wife, and Isla’s spine goes rigid. “Isla’s our secret weapon.”
“What the fuck?” I demand.
Isla’s eyes widen, just a fraction as she looks at me, and I watch her, trying to read the storm behind them.
“She’s not part of this.”
“She needs to be.”
“No.”
“Listen, Dorian?—”
“I got married for the sake of this campaign.”
Beside me, Isla winces.
“But I’m not dragging her through this shit.” I’ll protect her with my life.
“She’s perfect. Her platform—education, reading, community—it’s perfect. Relatable.”
“Are you listening? She’s not having a fucking platform. We’re not running for the White House.”
The unfinished part of my statement hangs in the air.
Yet.
Isla blinks. “The White House?”
“She’s an asset, and we need her.”
Everett picks up the thread. “You could teach part-time, show the voters you’re one of them. What do you think?”
Isla hesitates, her gaze flicking to the window where the veranda’s Adirondack chairs sit empty, bathed in the glow of morning sunlight.
Is she’s picturing herself in front of a classroom, shaping minds. Or imagining the horror of a run for the presidency.
Finally, slowly, she says, “I…I think reading’s vital.”
“Isla—”
As if I hadn’t expressed a warning, she goes on. “Books open doors. I’d propose a community-first education fund—libraries, tutoring, access for kids who don’t have it.” Her eyes dart to me, then Brennan, seeking something—approval, maybe, or reassurance.
Fuck.
