Crowned by Fate (Crowned 2)

“Yes, sad news coming in today that unfortunately Peter S. Johnson has been murdered. He has led our country through many trials, and though he may not have been a favorite, he was here for two terms. His body was found at his home where he shared a life with his wife Lydia. There has been an arrest already made, sixty-five-year-old Jason Grant, who has no connection to Mr. Johnson himself, but police are assuming he was hired by someone who is involved with black market pharmaceutical drugs.”

“That’s right, Amber. After the scandal at his ball where it was revealed that he had been attempting to create his own drug, and worse than that, using it to abuse his daughter, it was only a matter of time before someone wanted the secrets to go to the grave with him.” They share a few sad looks between them before continuing. “Lydia herself has asked for privacy during this time while she deals with the loss of her husband, which I understand. It is unfortunate timing as the elections start this week. How’s Bryant Royal looking? I have my money on him.” That was Amber. Of course. “Your money isn’t something he needs. And I think we can both agree that women all over America will be giving him their vote….”

I lean against the doorframe. “How did you pull that off?” Blinking past the tears that threaten to take hold, I keep my eyes fixed on the TV, though anything that they’re talking about now isn’t being processed.

“Ahhh, my sweet one. We’re men of many tricks.” My teeth clamp closed, my jaw set. I don’t know if they notice my mood shift, but everyone falls silent.

I turn to face Bryant, who’s just passed Harper to Jess. “James Taylor will be acting president now.”

Sighing, I massage my temples. “At least it’s just acting.”

“I’ll go give her a bath so you can both work through this.” Jess disappears, with Jer and Devon close behind them.

Bryant cracks his neck, popping off the first few buttons of his shirt and drops down onto the sofa. “Spit it out, Isa. So we can fight, put our kid to bed, then I wouldn’t mind fucking you into the a.m., so speak now.”

Sometimes it scares me how easily Bryant reads me.

“I’ve always been around this life, Bryant. The campaigns, the fake faces, the importance of it all.” I move across the room and take a seat on the coffee table in front of him. “They tried to train me like a monkey to comply to their rules. To do this and that and not that and this. Do—” I suck in a deep breath. I need to swallow some of my anger if I want to articulate this in a way that won’t have me screaming at Bryant. Why can’t he understand without me saying anything at all? “Bryant. This world, the one that you’re so willingly able to step into, took so much from me growing up. It owned my life just so that it could be the thing to destroy it—and it did. I’m twenty-six years old and I still haven’t grabbed back my life after they trampled all over it. And I get it. You don’t think it was a president problem, it was a dad problem, but—” I lean forward, bringing my hands to his knees. “This is one big trigger for my nightmares. I see these campaign posters around the house.” I hike my thumb over my shoulder. “And I don’t feel the pride that a first lady should feel, you know what I feel?” He doesn’t answer, so I carry on. “Anguish, bitterness, rage, predisposed bullshit for our daughter.” I shake my head, swiping the tears that are falling down my cheek.

Talking about this with Bryant is like pouring salt on an open wound. When you carry all of your past demons as a scar bared on your flesh, talking about those demons again is very much the same as taking to that scar with a scalpel and slicing it right back open.

“What do you want from me, Isa?” he whispers, his blue to my green.

I exhale, defeated. “I want to not have to need to have this conversation with you.”

Leaning forward, he brings his palm to the side of my cheek. “Baby—”

“—sorry! I don’t mean to interfere…” At the sound of her voice, I want to scream. My internal organs are being doused in gasoline and the only way I can put out the pain is if I set them on fire. Touché.

I’m on my feet in a flash, turning to face her. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

It’s just like the first time I saw her. She ignores me. As if I’m irrelevant and she only bows to her master. Who just so happens to be my goddamn husband.