Page 11 of Power Games

Staying with Izzy, although there was no love, and very little affection left on either side, had been the safe course of action. The easy road. He knew the score. Izzy couldn’t ever hope to hurt him any more than she already had, because, well, he genuinely didn’t give a damn if she ran off. In fact, he’d hired various PIs to follow her around and take pictures of what she was doing because he truly expected that there would come a time when she would want a divorce.

He wasn’t a cruel man, or a petty one: she’d gotten used to their lifestyle and it wouldn’t do to let her suffer, so he’d give her plenty of money. Just not fifty percent. No way.

They hadn’t signed a prenup when they’d gotten married—who did when they were broke, without real prospects, and eighteen years old? That left him highly vulnerable now. Izzy would get millions. Fifty wasn’t a bad number. Surely she couldn’t manage to spend more than that in a lifetime?

He’d be happy to be rid of her, but it wouldn’t make up for the mistake he’d made when he’d walked away from Vanessa McNamara all those years ago.

He told himself it might not have worked either way. Maybe they would have dated and broken up after realizing they weren’t compatible. That happened, right? But the pep talk was useless because it was bullshit, and he knew it.

It was too late now. Vanessa was dating. No, the word was inappropriate. Vanessa was in a relationship, a long-standing one. Everywhere, he saw pictures of the cute, happy celebrity couple. He recalled the first time he’d heard of it. Yeah, that had been a bad day.

Charles had been so fucking close to doing it then. Just divorcing Izzy, and going to Vanessa. Telling her what he felt, unreasonable as it was. Asking her out. She might have said yes. Shewouldhave said yes. The way she looked at him, the way she breathed when he got close almost guaranteed it. He’d noticed it and relished it.

But then, fucking Rob had happened, and he'd told himself to stay the fuck away from her.

The memory of walking in on Izzy with another man that first time squashed it. No way was he going to attempt stealing someone else's woman. Besides, he doubted Vanessa would even glance at another man now that she was taken. Not Ms. My-Vagina-Belongs-to-my-Future-Husband.

Husband. One day soon, the two celebrities would announce their engagement, no doubt. He braced himself for it.

“Sir?” Bruce, his driver, called from the front of his car. “We’re here.”

How long had he remained in the car, staring at the building like an idiot? He didn’t even want to know.

“I won’t stay long,” he told Bruce, finally pulling himself out of the vehicle.

"Very well, sir. I'll be close by."

Charles still did a lot of community work—he never was happier than when he was helping those in need. But while building hospitals, kitchens, schools, affordable housing, and the rest of the heavy lifting was at the top of his priorities benefits, award ceremonies, and the rest of the crap that went hand-in-hand with it.

Still, throwing a party was a good way to relieve his peers of some change in the name of charity, so he paid his dues.

Tonight was ritzier than usual. Charles walked on the red carpet, the flash of the paparazzi’s cameras blinding him. Back in the day, he used to carry sunglasses, but he was used to it now. He waved, smiled, said a few words about the foundation.

“All right folks, two questions and I gotta dash.”

He pointed to Richard Plocks, a real hardass who never hesitated to ream him a new one when Charles deserved it. Charles knew better than to ignore him. If his question didn’t get answered, he’d find out what he wanted to know.

“Isn’t it superfluous to spend so much giving children computers, when there’re some people who don’t have access to clean water around the world?”

Charles didn’t miss a beat.

“It’s easy to say 'I didn’t have a computer when I was growing up and I turned out just fine.’ Those in charge of the education budget don’t seem to realize that it was a long fucking time ago.” So, he cursed. He'd attempted to stop himself the first few years, but that was part of him—a part the public loved him for, because he was real, relatable, unapologetically himself. “Nowadays, a kid without access to the Internet when he or she goes home is at a real disadvantage. We won’t fix everything today, but this is one step in the right direction. As for those in need of water, I’ll remind you that the Jacobs Foundation has been working to improve that since two years ago. Our efforts haven’t diminished. Another question.”

This time, he waved to a young guy, who turned beetroot red and practically started skipping.

“Is it true that Ms. Grant has been seeing Robert Clarington, sir?”

I don’t doubt it.

Gossip trash. He should have known. “Let’s focus on the subject at hand. Another question.”

The journalists all raised their hands at first, but then half of them turned to their left and rushed away from him. What the fuck? Charles followed their gaze and froze.

Vanessa. He hadn’t seen her for three years and forty-two days. Not that anyone was counting.

She’d changed a little; at twenty-five, there was absolutely nothing left of the pigtailed, braces-clad first daughter. Her hair was in a fancy updo, except for one soft wavy lock falling to her naked shoulder. Her dress was gold today—silken liquid gold with a sweetheart neckline, flaring at her hips and ending just an inch below the knees. She wore impossibly high heels and walked like they were comfortable slippers.

No trace of Rob, the fucking boyfriend.

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