Page 62 of Twisted Vows

This must be a first…I’m the one who’s ready first. I step into the bathroom and see my husband standing in front of the mirror. His movements are precise, methodical. The razor glides over his jaw, leaving smooth skin in its wake. Steam curls around him, clinging to the edges of the mirror, and the faint scent of his cologne lingers in the air—woodsy, sharp, undeniably him.

He doesn’t glance at me. Which I take as a blessing, given that I might be drooling. I lean against the doorframe, crossing my arms as my gaze settles on his reflection. The towel slung low on his hips, the lean strength in his shoulders, the calm, unflinching way he shaves—everything about him is composed.

His eyes flick to mine in the mirror, sharp and unreadable, before he returns his attention to the razor. “We’re late,” he says, tone light. “And you’re distracting me.”

I bite back a smile as I take a step closer. “Distracting you?” I let the words hang in the steam-thick air, my lips curving. “How very inconvenient for you, husband.”

He sets the razor down, finally turning to face me, his gaze hot. “Yes,” he says simply, eyes dragging over me like a caress, “inconvenient.”

The heat in his tone makes me want to forget our social obligation. I push off the doorframe, taking a slow step forward. “You know,” I say, tilting my head as I study him, “We could forget about the dog and pony show and—”

“There is nothing I’d like more.” He takes my hand and pulls me close, dropping a quick kiss on my lips. “But we need to remind the senator of his commitments.”

I take the towel from his hand and dab a missed spot of shaving cream. “Your loss.”

“Not really.” He drops his head and lets his mouth rest close to my ear. “Because it means I will deliver twice the orgasms when we get home.”

My face flushes. “Can’t wait.” I blow him a kiss and return to our bedroom, praying that the party doesn’t drag on. Right now, all we have is a fragile thread keeping us tethered, and I want to do everything I can to ensure nothing breaks it.

***

The senator’s estate feels more like a gilded prison than a home. High vaulted ceilings stretch endlessly above a ballroom bathed in warm light, while marble floors gleam under the weight of a hundred footsteps. Crystal chandeliers dangle like threats, refracting light into a thousand tiny knives. Everythinghere screams excess, power, and ego—Senator Redford’s trifecta.

“Do you think his next campaign slogan will beVote Redford: Narcissist for the People?” I whisper to Maxsim as my eyes land on a particularly absurd oil painting. The senator stands front and center, shaking hands with a pope, his expression caught somewhere between smug and sanctimonious.

Maxsim’s lips quirk slightly, his version of a laugh. “If it works, who am I to judge?”

“How pragmatic of you.” I swirl my champagne, taking in the crowd with practiced disinterest. Every guest here is part of a careful puzzle—political donors, corporate magnates, and the occasional criminal with just enough polish to blend in.

Maxsim leans down, his voice low and deliberate. “Subtlety doesn’t win elections, Ari. Neither does honesty.”

His hand brushes the small of my back, a touch so brief I almost convince myself it didn’t happen. “You’re enjoying yourself,” he says.

“Hardly.” I tilt my glass toward another oversized portrait of Redford, this one depicting him in a heroic pose, gazing thoughtfully at an American flag. “But I do enjoy watching you pretend to care.”

His lips twitch, but his gaze sharpens as it sweeps across the room. “And what are you doing, wife? Other than making jokes at our host’s expense?”

“Observing.” I flash him a wicked grin. “Someone has to keep you from missing the important details.”

“Such as?”

I nod toward Redford, who’s holding court near the grand staircase. His laugh carries across the room, loud and hollow, as his guests fawn over him. “He’s too comfortable,” I murmur.“That’s a man who thinks he owns this room. Either you’ve given him leverage, or he’s holding something over you.”

Maxsim chuckles softly, though there’s an edge to the sound. “You’re dangerous when you pay attention.”

“And you’re dangerous when you underestimate me,” I counter, savoring the flicker of approval in his eyes.

Before he can reply, a waiter approaches with a tray. Maxsim takes a glass of champagne, his movements controlled, deliberate. But I see it—the slight tension in his shoulders, the way his jaw tightens when he glances back at Redford.

Maxsim sips his champagne, his eyes never leaving the senator. “Redford’s useful.”

“For now,” I say, watching Maxsim’s gaze harden.

“For as long as I need him to be.” His voice is soft, but the threat in it is unmistakable.

Redford chooses that moment to approach, his grin as wide and false as a salesman’s promise. “Maxsim,” he says warmly, extending a hand. “Good to see you again.”

“Senator,” Maxsim replies smoothly, shaking his hand.

---