CHAPTER 3

Kate

I’ve never done anything like that before. I can’t believe I snapped. “I—” I stammer. “I…you’re being…such a complete jerk about this!”

Dorian touches the side of his face, brows lifting. “Yeah, princess,” he mutters. “Clearly I’m the one acting like a complete bastard.”

“Did you know about our parents tying the knot before now?” I press again.

“What, before you messaged me begging for a taste of this?” He grips his cock.

“I didn’t exactly have to plead,” I bite out, jaw tight. “Pretty sure no one has to twist your wrist to get the dick you pass around like it’s free samples.”

“You sure didn’t seem to mind sucking it like it was spun sugar,” he fires back.

Heat surges into my cheeks. “That isn’t how I—”

“What, Harvard?” he cuts me off. “You going to stand there and tell me you don’t remember wrapping those pretty lips around my cock like it was the sweetest thing you’d ever put in your mouth?”

“I won’t even bother a-answering that,” I snap. Still, my face burns hotter, and my lungs feel tight at the mental picture of Dorian’s cock against my tongue.

No. I can’t think about that. “That was nothing but a lapse of judgment. Whatever happened between us never actually happened.”

“Relax, Angel,” he says. “Our filthy little secret’s safe with me. Already forgotten. You weren’t exactly unforgettable anyway.”

His words make me bristle.

 Not unforgettable? I’m ready to let him have it when the door creaks open behind him. He steps aside quickly, and there’s my father, Ella right behind. My father’s brow creases slightly, though barely noticeable. He’s the ultimate politician, always composed.

He’s mastered hiding any reaction. If you didn’t know him, you’d miss the subtle line on his forehead that signals annoyance. My stomach drops. Does he know? Is it written across my face like some kind of shameful stamp—I slept with Dorian Reed.

“Ah,” my father says evenly. “I was wondering where you’d gone off to.”

“The news is overwhelming, I’m sure,” Ella adds softly, resting her hand on his arm. “You probably both need some privacy, without us hovering.”

Dorian lets out a bitter laugh. “Yeah, right,” he mutters. “I’ve had more than enough time with Little Miss Perfect.” He slips between my father and Ella, and they make space for him, though Ella’s eyes widen.

“Dorian!” she gasps. “That’s uncalled for.”

“Uncalled for?” he shoots back over his shoulder, still walking away. “That’s rich coming from two people who just dropped a surprise marriage on their kid, don’t you think?”

Did he seriously just claim they blindsided me with this whole marriage thing? Like he knew ahead of time?

The furrow in my father’s brow deepens. “I will not put up with…”

Shit. I don’t think my father really understands what he’s dealing with in Dorian. He believes every problem can be fixed with strict rules and a heavy dose of physical drills. If this scene had played out with a younger Dorian, my father would already have him outside, sprinting laps and dropping for push-ups until his arms gave out. But Dorian isn’t a kid anymore. He’s grown. I have no clue what strategy my father plans to use now.

Dorian halts. “Put up with? Let’s get one thing clear. If you want to show off your daughter like she’s some kind of perfect poster child for the cameras, that’s between you two. But me? You don’t get to step into my life and expect me to fake this happy-family bullshit.”

I freeze, waiting for my father’s comeback. His anger doesn’t surface often, but when it does, it’s catastrophic. And even though I despise nearly everything about Dorian, a flicker of smugness runs through me hearing him speak to my father that way. No one ever talks to him like that. Not even me. It almost feels like Dorian is standing up for me, even though I know he isn’t.

“Dorian Reed!” Ella yells, her tone trembling. “We should discuss this. I understand you’re angry, but…”

Dorian cuts her off. “Oh, and Senator?” he sneers. “You probably believe this is some fairytale love story, but my mother doesn’t exactly have the best track record with men. You might want to keep that in mind.” Without another glance, he storms down the hall, and the slam of the front door echoes through the house.

Ella’s gaze flicks from me to my father. She blinks slowly, once, twice, then again, and instantly I feel a stab of pity for her. She looks like she’s fighting tears, and the moment feels unbearably awkward, like I should say something to soften it. As if anything could.

I clear my throat. “I’m sure… I mean… he’s just upset. I’m sure it’ll be fine.” My voice sounds strained, brittle. Why am I trying to soothe the two people who just dropped this bombshell on us, expecting blind obedience? 

As much as it kills me to admit it, Dorian wasn’t wrong. “Um. I’m just going upstairs.” I slip past both of them and head up to my room without waiting for permission.

Inside, I shut the door and sit on my bed. The white coverlet rests against the dark wood frame and matching desk. Everything is antique, consistent with the rest of the house. The walls are filled with framed reminders of every accomplishment my father deems worthy—awards, plaques, perfect snapshots.

This doesn’t feel like my dorm room at Brighton, with its bright bedding, collages of friends, and my art taped across the walls. Outside, my car sits in the driveway packed with leftovers from high school.

Sara, my best friend, is off backpacking through Europe with Dan this summer. Come with us, she begged. It’s your one chance to lose control before college. Everyone does it. We’ll drink until sunrise in Rome.

But disappointing my father was never an option. I’ve always been the obedient daughter, fulfilling expectations without fail. And sure, I know my life is privileged—the ‘Senator dad’, the private academy, one of the country’s top universities on the horizon. Still, I can’t help indulging in a little self-pity.

Already, the walls here feel like they’re pressing in on me. I won’t be stuck in the DC house long. Soon enough, I’ll be shipped off to the summer place in New Hampshire, which will be its own prison. Days of campaign work, endless staged photos, and smiling at the cameras beside my father and his brand-new wife.

Then it hits me. Oh, fuck. Does this mean Dorian will be dragged along to New Hampshire with us?