Page 48 of The Love You Fight For
“Wear it tomorrow night,” he says.
Ashton brushes past me and leaves me standing in his kitchen, but he stops before disappearing into the hallway. He doesn’t even turn to face me. He just speaks his patronizing command into the air.
“Do try to be on time, Samantha. This is a very important event for your father.”
Then he’s gone, and my jaw aches from how hard I’m clenching my teeth. The muscles in my legs tremble from how tightly I had them locked, fighting the urge to knee him in the groin.
He’s just like my father. He’s just like his father. He’s just like all of them.
These men? They’re all the fucking same.
I turn and calmly let myself out of his brownstone, then take the steps to the street and unlock my car. I climb inside, pull out of my parallel parking spot, and drive to the coffee shop. The whole time, the gaudy diamond necklace sits cold and unnatural on my skin, but I don’t dare take it off. I’m to pick up a large coffee order and an assortment of muffins and deliver them to the campaign office—a small thank you from Ashton to the team—then I’m to curate his calendar for the week, confirm his lunch reservations, and filter through his emails.
And I need to do it all without delay or complaint.
Gaining Ashton’s trust and staying on my father’s good side is imperative, and the way it pummels my pride and sense of self-worth doesn’t matter. It’s not that I think I’m above assistant tasks. It’s that assisting evil makes me an accomplice, and it’s getting harder to identify the rapidly blurring lines.
I can do it,I tell myself. I can.
Whatever it takes.
At seven fifteen,not a second earlier, I walk out of the lobby and climb into the waiting car.
The driver shuts the door behind me, and I smile at Ashton.
“You look beautiful.” His eyes drop to my neck and settle on the necklace there.
He reaches up and fingers the necklace, and there’s no hiding the flare of pride in his expression. The hunger. I’m a pretty pet, a symbol of status, and he thinks he’s going to use me for all I have to offer.
He hands me a glass of champagne. I take the flute and hold it, but I don’t drink it. Despite my mother’s proclivities, I know thatalcohol and Valium don’t mix well, and I don’t trust Ashton as far as I can spit.
“Thank you.” I cross my legs slowly. “You look nice as well.”
We sit in silence for the short trip to the restaurant. Ashton scrolls on his phone, occasionally chuckling to himself, and I wouldn’t be surprised to find him looking at nudes or watching cheap porn. For a moment, I feel bad for his future wife because I’m probably sitting exactly where she will sit as he does exactly what he will do.
I take a deep breath and find solace in the fact that his future wife will not be me.
The driver pulls up to the flashy restaurant and opens the door. Ashton slides out first and offers me his hand. I take it and follow. As we enter the restaurant, he places his hand on my lower back, just above my ass, and escorts me to our reserved private room in the back.
I hear my father as we approach. His campaign finance manager is sitting to his left, but to my surprise, I find my mother sitting on his right. From the looks of her, she did not turn down the champagne with the Valium. She smiles when she sees me, and I force a smile in return.
I scan the tables and take note of the faces I see. I recognize all of them, and I wish I didn’t. All big names in politics and money, some of whom donated to my father’s senator campaign in the past, and the others he’s courting now. Thankfully, one face is mercifully absent, and I let myself relax a little. That’s one mask I don’t have to worry about tonight.
“Excuse me,” I say to Ashton and turn to leave.
He grabs my wrist tightly, and I stop, glancing at him over my shoulder.
“Where are you going?”
I swallow back a smartass retort and give him a mild smile, instead.
“To the lady’s room.”
He drops my wrist, and though he doesn’t say it, I read the command in his eyes loud and clear.
Hurry back, pet.
Inside the restroom, I remove my second cell phone from my handbag and power it on. I set it to silent, then set it to record, and place it back into my handbag in a pocket containing an assortment of tampons and panty liners. I doubt anything of importance will happen tonight—my father is pompous and overconfident, but he’s not stupid—but I am always prepared.
