Page 2 of Power Games

And he still half-wished he had, because then he wouldn’t have walked in on her, legs widespread and high in the air, as she screamed her head off, a naked ass pounding inside her.

She’d fucked her loveron their bed. Who even did that?

But she was his wife, still, so he’d heard her out. He had to agree with some of what she’d said in her defense.

They were each other’s first relationship. They’d basically been children when they’d met, and they should never have gotten married back then. Everyone had cautioned them against it. Seven years in the Army hadn’t helped; he’d been absent, or too tired to be attentive.

Izzy said that when he’d come back after his injury, she’d believed they could start to be an actual couple. Instead of taking the time to get to know his wife, he’d thrown himself into his new job and his studies.

Charles could have argued that he had done it all to ensure they built a better life, but justifying his choices didn’t change the facts. They’d gotten married ten years ago, and they’d barely spent any time together since then.

Charles had a simple solution. He wanted a divorce. That was the logical thing, to him.

Izzy had another idea.

“We just need to find ourselves, like we should have when we were teenagers. You know, date, experience things. We’ll come back to each other once that’s out of the way.”

She wanted to see other people, while keeping their rings on their fingers. He set his jaw. It sounded like an absurd, and downright obscene, notion to him.

That said, Charles was the one who’d left, and who stayed away from her now, although he was back in the country. She was his wife, and he’d try, if it was what she wanted. He owed it to her. They should have had this conversation well before she started fucking around, sure, but it didn’t mean she was fundamentally wrong.

“One year,” he said. “Let’s try for one year. If it doesn’t work, we’ll get a divorce.”

Izzy had nodded enthusiastically, before fucking him harder than she ever had before.

When she introduced herself as his wife, she was telling the absolute truth. Why did it feel like a lie, then?

“Well, welcome, Mrs. Grant. We’re glad to have you both. Tristan?” Theodore McNamara called out.

A tall, dark-haired man with a ready smile and cold eyes excused himself from the conversation he was having a few feet away and approached them.

“Tristan, we were just talking about Mr. Grant last night weren’t we? Well, here’s the man of the hour and his delightful wife. Mr. Grant, my son, Tristan.”

Charles could have guessed. They may have looked a little different, but the two men exuded the same air, a charisma that clearly said ‘power.’

“Call me Charles, if you please.”

It was strange that a man in his thirties, and another one twice his age, were so formal with him.

“Very well. Charles here has more followers than you or I on Twitter; whenever he announces his intention to speak anywhere, the venue gets booked up within minutes.”

True, on both accounts. He shoved his hands in his pockets and laughed it off. “Can’t deny it; Jacobs Enterprises PR team needs a raise.”

Tristan chuckled and extended his hand to shake Charles’. “If PR could work miracles, we’d know by now. They have to have a good product to advertise. Come on through, I’ll show you around.”

The Georgetown home was exactly what he expected it to be: massive, old and decadent. It looked like it had been handed down for generations. It hadn’t been, however: the house had been purchased right after the end of Theodore’s presidency, four years ago.

The McNamaraswerean old family, though. Theodore’s mother, Narcissia Trent, could be traced right back to the Mayflower. She’d married a British Earl, or something of the sort. Charles guessed that most of the decorations, portraits, and elegant furniture were authentic and personal, moved from the plantation they still owned in their home state, North Carolina.

“I see a resemblance,” Charles noted, pointing to one of the portraits in the drawing room.

It was a painting of a beautiful brunette with deep brown eyes.

“That’s Cici—Narcissia Trent,” Tristan explained. “When she was younger, of course. People say I favor her, but my sister looks like a carbon copy of her.”

His tone and his cold eyes warmed up a little. Tristan was obviously fond of his sister—Vanessa, if memory served.

Charles recalled a pigtailed teenager with glasses and braces. She’d worn a lot of pink, back when she’d been America’s first daughter, not so long ago.

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