Page 4 of Broken Princess
2
Logan
My jaw clenchedas I stared at the teak double doors in front of me through narrowed eyes, picturing everything that lay in the lavish sitting room beyond. Red and gold Persian carpets over dark hardwood floors. Custom cabinetry and antique furnishings. Floor-to-ceiling windows draped with thick velvet curtains. Roaring fire in the hearth.
And Q.
I closed my eyes for a brief second, picturing Willow’s beautiful face, and then I pushed one of the doors open and stepped inside the room, carefully balancing a silver tray on one arm.
“Hi, Mom,” I said, stretching my lips into a tight, forced smile.
She was sitting on one of the black leather Chesterfield sofas with a silver tablet in her lap. When she heard me, she glanced upward, surprise etched on her face. “Logan, you’re home early!” she said. “I wasn’t expecting you back till after midnight. What happened to the party?”
“I decided to skip the fireworks.”
“Ah. What’s that?” She nodded toward the tray in my left hand.
I stepped over and deposited it on the coffee table which stood in the center of the rug at her feet. “It’s your favorite herbal tea,” I said. “I brought the nighttime dose of your medication, too. I figured you probably hadn’t taken it yet.”
She shook her head. “No, I usually take it right before bed, but it’s so sweet of you to bring it to me! Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” My fake smile grew warmer and wider as I poured two cups of tea. “I was just thinking… maybe we should invent a new winter tradition. We should have a drink every night in front of the fire, just like this.” I stretched a hand toward the white marble fireplace. “Unless you’re already busy. Sorry, I should’ve asked.”
Mom shook her head and put her tablet down. “No, I’m not busy at all. I was just reading something,” she said, quickly switching off the screen before locking the device and leaning down to slide it under the sofa.
“What were you reading?” I asked, taking a seat next to her.
She waved a hand. “Nothing much. Just a trashy thriller book about an Australian housewife who spies on her neighbors.”
Sure.“Sounds interesting.”
“Not really. I’d much rather talk to you,” she said, reaching forward to pick up her teacup. “What brought on this idea for a new tradition, anyway?”
I feigned a shamed expression and rubbed my chin. “Willow mentioned something to me a while ago. She said that you feel like I haven’t been around much lately,” I said. “I want that to change. I know I’ve been helping you out with the Carlton campaign stuff, but that doesn’t feel like enough. I want us to hang out more. Talk more.”
Mom’s brows rose as I spoke. She set her cup back down on the table and leaned closer to me. “I’m so glad to hear that,” she said, eyes sparkling with excitement. “This is all I’ve ever wanted. More time with you.”
“Me too,” I said, letting her wrap her thin arms around me in a tight hug.
As I looked over her shoulder, my smile faded. I focused my flinty gaze on a painted family portrait on the opposite wall, and a cold sensation flushed through my body, turning every muscle rigid.
I was still finding it hard to believe that my mother was Q, but I knew it was the truth. The DNA test results proved it.
Cleo said that she compared the saliva sample I took from Q’s underground lair to the one she took from my mouth, and it showed a familial match so close to mine that it could only be a parent. We already knew the saliva came from a woman, so that left us with only one possibility for Q’s identity.
My mom.
She’d misled me and everyone else for all these years, putting on the façade of a bored, air-headed housewife whilst secretly running a clandestine organization in the upper echelons of American society. Most people wouldn’t be able to pull off such a feat for so many years, but the disarming image she’d built for herself worked perfectly as a cover.
No one would ever suspect her. I certainly never did, and if I hadn’t scrounged up cold hard evidence in the form of DNA, I probably never would, either. It just didn’t seem possible that my mother—the sweet, unassuming woman who loved organizing charity fundraiser balls—could be responsible for so much darkness. So much death and destruction.
At the same time, it seemed wildly obvious that it was her now that I knew the truth, and I wanted to fucking kick myself for never suspecting it. There were so many clues lying in plain sight.
Her side of the family, the Hales, were much wealthier and far more powerful than my father’s family—or any other family in the country, for that matter. They had everything, but they shunned the glitz and glamor that usually accompanied obscene riches like theirs, opting for extreme privacy instead. They were also deeply interested in the world of politics and the sort of social control which came with it.
I should’ve picked up on that. I should’ve wondered why the hell none of the Hales were ever tapped for Order membership despite everything they had to offer to the group. I should’ve realized it was because they more than likely started the society in the first place and kept their involvement a secret so that no one would ever ask questions or realize just how much power they truly had.
I should’ve fucking known.
