Page 95 of Royal Bargain
Then a reply.
Burns: Not if you still want to win this war.
I curse under my breath, raking a hand through my hair.
I want to go to Ana. Every instinct is screaming at me to get back to her side. But this campaign… the leverage it gives us, the power Burns holds—this could be the only way to strike first.
I clench my jaw and shove the phone into my pocket. I’ll make it quick.
But every step toward that campaign office feels like I’m walking away from the one person I swore to protect.
I pause just outside my car, fingers twitching with the need to do something. I don’t trust this. I don’t trust any of it. Anatoly walking free? After everything? No way that’s just bad luck. Someone pulled strings, someone got paid. And if he’s out… Ana’s not safe.
I hit speed dial for Shane.
He answers on the second ring. “Yeah, Boss?”
“Is she still there?” My voice is clipped, too sharp.
He pauses. “She’s good. Still at the safehouse. Just checked in twenty minutes ago. Windows locked, guards posted front and back. I’m doing another sweep right now.”
I exhale, tension bleeding out just a little. “Anything suspicious? Anyone lingering nearby?”
“Nah. Quiet as a graveyard. She’s with the baby—said she was going to nap.”
My chest aches at that. “Keep eyes on her, Shane. I don’t care if she sneezes—you tell me.”
“You got it.”
I hang up and squeeze the steering wheel, knuckles whitening. She’s safe. For now.
But how long before that changes?
I glance back at Burns’s text. He better have something damn important to say, because if I’m wasting time here while the Russians make their next move…
God help whoever stands in my way.
The campaign office looks different at night.
Gone are the buzzing interns and frantic staffers. The fluorescent lights are dimmed, replaced by the low amber glow of desk lamps and the occasional flicker from a muted TV. Outside, the city is quiet, still reeling from the election results—and the chaos that followed.
I slip in through the side entrance, just like Burns asked. No press. No aides. No paper trail.
The conference room door is already ajar, voices low and murmured inside. I push it open.
Burns is seated at the head of the table, sleeves rolled up, tie discarded. Around him sit half a dozen figures—city officials I recognize from backroom meetings and donor events, a couple of wealthy benefactors who’ve never once sweated for a cause but have poured oceans of money into his campaign, and a familiar advisor with a jaw like a brick wall and a watch that costs more than my first car.
The air is thick with cigar smoke and tension.
Burns looks up as I enter. “Liam. Good. We’re just getting started.”
I take a seat near the far end of the table, but close enough to see the tired steel in his eyes. He doesn't waste time.
“We won the primary,” he says, quiet but fierce. “That was the easy part. Now we go after the real prize—the general.”
No applause. No toasts. Just sharp nods and colder stares.
“We ruffled feathers,” he continues. “Pissed off the Russians, made enemies out of old allies. The media’s going to eat us alive if we don’t control the narrative.”
