Page 198 of Broken Bonds
“Bullshit,” I reflexively say.
But this isn’t finished. And before I can process the way Mom’s posture changes, nearly folding in on herself, the voice asks another question. “Your other son, Malcolm, isn’t it? He hasn’t been spotted at your campaign events. Our viewers would love to know where that eligible bachelor is. Apparently, his Insta is blowing up.”
Laughter ripples through the gathered throng. Most of them aren’t press. Campaign workers, maybe? Hard to say. It’s being held in some generic hotel ballroom.
My brothers’ smiles don’t hold.
And Mom…
Mom. I spot the way her chest hitches, how she closes her eyes and steps back like she’s about to bolt from the stage.
My father’s face, though?—
Todd hits pause. “Morning sent me that a little while ago. It’s from yesterday.”
“That’s who’s asking those questions! Isn’t that risky? His getting in there like that?”
Todd shrugs. “Morning Caldwell is a well-known, high-priced attorney with his fingers in countless pies. It wouldn’t surprise me if he walked up to the White House, snapped his fingers, and got ushered inside without a second glance. He’s also fae, and over 300 years old, meaning he can likely glamour himself so he isn’t recognized.”
I stare at the frozen image on the TV. The micro-expression on the left side of my father’s upper lip, curling in a snarl he’s barely able to disguise.
“Do I want to hear the rest?” I ask. “Wait a minute. My Insta? I haven’t logged into that since before leaving Atlanta.”
“Hold that thought,” he says, hitting play.
My father’s almost-snarl fully transitions into a smile. “Malcolm is currently working on academic projects in Europe. He’s our youngest, and we obviously prefer he focus on his studies instead of being sucked into the whirlwind of politics.”
I jab my finger at the screen. “Bullshit!”
Todd hits pause. “That’s all that really matters,” he says. This freeze-frame catches my father’s brow creased vertically above his nose.
Which only happens when he’s enraged.
I mean, I am an expert at detecting and decoding his expressions and have been since I was little.
Deciphering my father’s moods was the best way to survive them.
Todd swipes out of the video and into the Insta account for the ranch. He types my user handle in the search box and, sure enough, I now have over 300k followers, when before I shut my phone off, I think I had 25, maybe? 24? And half of those were probably spam accounts.
My jaw drops. “Da fuuuuuuuq?”
“They’re making it look like you’re overseas.” He starts scrolling through my profile, past posts, and stops at a picture posted on the day after the mating hunt…
Well, it’s not me. I recognize the expression I’m wearing—kinda cute and pouty, if I say so myself—but it looks like AI’s been used to put me in a Hawaiian shirt and cargo shorts. The angle is from slightly below me, looking up—damn, that is a good angle for me—one hand’s in my pocket, and the other is flashing a peace sign at the camera.
Behind me is the Acropolis.
The caption reads: Know your history - save the future. Peace, baby loves. Followed by several cute emojis I didn’t even know were on a phone.
That, apparently, is the photo that first went viral.
I am… literally… speechless. Brain just…blown.
I try to say something a couple of times and give up, staring at the screen.
Todd chuckles. “Morning and Dahlia had a hand in making sure it quickly spread.”
“Has my father been sending me DMs there?”
