Page 85 of The Love You Fight For
I want to vomit at the hero worship in Ashton’s voice. Instead, I just smile and nod.
“It was amazing, Daddy.”
My father pulls me into a hug, and I let him because I know there are cameras on us, and this is all just for show.
“Thank you, Samantha,” he says before releasing me and turning to Ashton. “And thank you. The new speech writer you hired is working wonders. I don’t think I’ve received that loud of an applause.”
My father chuckles, and I wait for Ashton to confess to him that, actually, the new speech writer is none other than the broodmare he sired. He doesn’t, though. He just lets my father praise him and remains confident I’ll stand by and bite my tongue. I do. I only hope I don’t choke to death on the pride I’m being forced to swallow.
I trail my father along the pre-mapped route back to our cars, stopping every few feet to shake a hand or smile for a picture or answer a question. By the time I slide into the back seat of one of my father’s luxury SUVs, my face hurts from all the smiles I’ve faked. He’s still chatting up voters and smiling for pictures, but I couldn’t do it anymore.
Since the rally was in Maryland, we only have an hour drive back to D.C., and I’m grateful I get a car to myself.
Or I’m supposed to, anyway.
When the car door opens and Ashton slips in, I find my whole body tensing.
“Ashton.” I give him a tight smile. “Aren’t you supposed to be riding with Daddy?”
He buckles his seat belt, then turns to me.
“Your father had things he needed to discuss with Denise,” he says brightly, “so I offered to ride with you.”
I’m sure he did. More like my father wanted to fuck his finance manager after such a successful rally, so he booted Ashton from the car. I hum in understanding, and then I turn my eyes out the tinted window.
“I was wanting to speak to you, anyway, Samantha,” Ashton says.
His fake casual tone belies his true intentions. I straighten my spine and face him. I raise my eyebrows and give him another smile.
“Oh? What about?”
He drags critical eyes over me, pausing briefly before speaking.
“I feel like I haven’t seen you as much since yourbout of flu. Shouldn’t you be recovered by now? It’s been weeks.”
His words are skeptical. He doesn’t believe I was sick with the flu.
“You see me almost every day, Ashton,” I say, laughing lightly.
“You know what I mean, Samantha.”
His tone is sharp, but I don’t flinch. I know exactly what he means, but I give nothing away.
“I’m afraid I don’t. Please, elaborate for me.”
He holds my eyes again, and I make sure to keep mine blank as his narrow to cruel little slits. I half expect him to stick out a forked tongue.
“Let me try this another way,” he says slowly. “What’s in Franklin?”
I arch a brow.
“Daddy’s house is there, Ashton. Surely you remember. I grew up there.”
He chuckles and shakes his head, then pulls his phone out and types something into it.
“If you were going there to, say, spend time with your family,that would be one thing. But last I checked, your mother is in the South of France, and you haven’t set foot in your father’s house in over a year. You see, when you disappeared withthe flu, no one could find you. No one could get ahold of you.”
The skin on the back of my neck starts to crawl. It takes every ounce of restraint in me not to fidget under his scrutiny.
