Page 77 of Royal Bargain
“It’s a good thing,” she says sharply, cutting me off, “that Senator Burns is finally taking a stance. This city’s been overrun for years. Crime bosses, smugglers, arms dealers—old men clinging to their little empires, poisoning everything they touch.”
I swallow hard. The unspoken words hang thick in the air. My family.
“And if some of those old men happen to be your father and his associates,” Miranda continues coolly, “well, I suppose everyone has skeletons. But you, darling—you have a future.A daughter. You should be grateful someone’s willing to clean things up so she can have a real chance.”
Her gaze flicks toward me, all softness gone. “Unless you’d prefer Lily grow up in the same world you did. Surrounded by men like Anatoly.”
I go still.
She smiles again, serene. “Didn’t think so.”
The room feels suddenly colder. I nod, numb, and mumble something about needing to get back. Miranda rises to walk me out, ever the gracious hostess, but my thoughts spin too fast to hold on to anything she says.
Even once I’m back in the car with Shane, the words replay over and over in my head.
Why did Burns need to be shot?
And if Miranda does know the answer…
She’s not telling me.
The café’s only a few blocks from Liam’s place, wedged between a florist and a dry cleaner. Ivy crawls up the red brick, and the patio’s cluttered with mismatched chairs and chipped tables. It smells like espresso and fresh pastries. For once, I don’t feel like I’m being watched—except by Shane.
He’s posted up by a lamppost, arms crossed, aviators on, scanning the street like it’s second nature. Always alert. Always waiting for something to go wrong.
Ingrid shows up five minutes late. Not like her.
She doesn’t bother with a greeting. No air-kiss. No snide comment about my outfit. Just drops into the seat across from me and pulls off her sunglasses in one sharp move.
“You look tired,” she says. Not unkind, but not warm either. Just matter-of-fact.
“Thanks,” I reply dryly. “You, uh… don’t.”
She doesn’t smile. Instead, she signals the server for tea without glancing at the menu.
Something’s off.
“You okay?” I ask cautiously.
Ingrid exhales through her nose, a little too sharply. “My sister’s been making headlines again,” she mutters, barely loud enough to hear.
I tilt my head. “Emilie?”
She waves a hand like she regrets even bringing it up. “It’s nothing. Just… she has a gift for creating chaos at the worst possible moment.”
Then, just as quickly, Ingrid’s tone shifts. She straightens, smoothing down the front of her cream blazer.
“But we’ll talk about that another time. Right now, we need to discuss you. We need to quickly capitalize on the waves you’ve been making after your last two appearances.”
My heart leaps a little, but there’s something in her expression that keeps me from smiling. Her eyes are sharp, calculating.
“Okay,” I say slowly. “So what now?”
Ingrid doesn’t waste time. “Next step,” she says, pulling a folder from her bag and sliding it across the table, “is building your brand.”
I blink. “I thought we were. With music.”
She gives me a patient, polished look. “Music is the product. You are the brand.”
