Page 77 of Power Games

It wasn’t, but it was where he wanted her.

“Tell me you won’t get in my way, Dad." Yes, she was using the dad card now. It worked. Theodore's eyes softened a little. "Tell me you’ll help me.”

He dropped his lips to her forehead. “You know I will.” He squeezed her shoulders. “We’ll start preparing the field immediately. You have to start locally, of course. Senate. Then, in twelve to sixteen years—”

She had to chuckle.

“I’m coming back for this presidential run, Dad.”

Theodore stilled.

“You're too young. And a little late in the game for that, don’t you think?”

She snorted.

“I didn't say I'd run, Dad."

He understood now. His eyes were cold.

"Vanessa...."

"I'll never join your races, your debates, your machinations. I never want to have my name in the history of this country. You'll have to settle for seeing Tristan rise to a position he isn't prepared to fill. He'll burn your achievements to the ground. Our name will be a joke by the time his four years are up—if he isn't impeached, that is."

Theodore shook his head. "With guidance..."

"Will he want your guidance once he's in power, Father?"

They both knew the answer to that question.

"Let me do this, Dad. Call the dogs off Charles.”

He shook his head. "I was young when I had Tristan. He was spoiled. By the time I was a man, he was a willful teenager. You were six when I started the race. Six. By eight, you knew what tie I should wear. Your dresses were always spotless. When I was in trouble, you did something cute just to get me out of it. You were made for office, Vanessa. You. My greatest accomplishment."

"I am," she admitted with a shrug. "And that's why you know I'll never step in your shoes. I know what it costs." She paused. "You used to be a good guy. Now, you got an innocent woman killed just so her husband wouldn't be in the way of your ambition. That's what power does to us."

"Careful, sweetheart. You understand much. But not everything."

She snorted. "Tell me you had nothing to do with Isabella's murder."

Theodore's eyes were so much like hers. Dark and warm, when he wanted them to be. He could soften them with a smile. Other times, they were the eyes of a snake.

"I have nothing to do with Isabella's murder," he repeated. "But you do."

She snorted. He wanted her to ask what he meant, she could tell. She didn't give him the satisfaction. No way was she going to let herself feel guilty about something she hadn't planned, hadn't ever wished for. She had no blood on her hands. She wanted it to stay that way.

"Father," she repeated, "Call off the dogs. I'll be First Lady, or I'll carry on being Nessie, the cute, irrelevant, airhead singer, until I'm a washed-up embarrassment to your legacy."

She started to walk away, leaving it at that. She'd only taken four steps when she heard him make a call.

“It's me. Slight change of plans. Lose the knife with the husband’s print. Yes. We won’t move again—”

She stopped paying attention. She didn’t need to know more.

* * *

She couldn’t bringherself to explain what had transpired the day he’d been taken by the MPD. Not all of it.

She didn’t need to.

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