Page 135 of Only the Wicked
The reception has grown more crowded, faces blurring into a kaleidoscope of power players and puppets. We’ll be departing soon for the Bastille gala, but the real event has already happened here, behind closed doors and in whispered conversations.
“Did it go well for you?” I tilt my head, remembering how the transmitted conversation cut off at a crucial moment. “With Romanovich?”
“It was something,” is all he gives me, his expression carefully neutral. But the tension in his jaw tells me whatever she shared after the connection ended may have changed the game.
As we move back into the crowd, I’m acutely aware of the diamonds at my wrist, transmitting our location to his security team. The irony isn’t lost on me—we’re both playing roles, both wearing devices that track and record, both on a hunt to reveal truths.
In this hall of mirrors where many watch all, Rhodes MacMillan is the one I’m holding onto.
Chapter
Thirty-Seven
Rhodes
Few homes in D.C. are as spectacular as the French ambassador’s residence. I’d understood it was quite the honor to be invited to the ambassador’s reception for the Bastille Day Gala, but it didn’t mean much to me until amazement lights Sydney’s eyes.
The strains of classical music fill the air as we’re guided through the home’s foyer, passing classical paintings, elegant tapestries, and stunning flower arrangements. I’ve attended dozens of these events—diplomatic receptions, embassy galas, fundraisers where powerful people gather to see and be seen. The opulence has always felt hollow, necessary but meaningless. But watching Sydney take in each detail with genuine wonder transforms the experience entirely. Every carved molding, every piece of art becomes something worth noticing because she notices it.
It would all mean nothing to me except for Sydney’s wide-eyed wonder. Yes, I am invited to places such as this, and I can give her this life.
The thought arrives with startling clarity, catching me off guard. Where did that come from? I’ve spent years perfecting the art of keeping women at arm’s length, even while suggesting otherwise. Especially while suggesting otherwise. A well-placed comment about “someday” or “when we” has always been my go-to move—just vague enough to be non-committal, just specific enough to keep them interested. It’s a practiced technique that’s served me well, keeping relationships light and temporary while making women feel like they’re part of some greater possibility.
But this thought wasn’t calculated. It wasn’t a line or a strategy. The image that flashed through my mind was visceral and immediate: Sydney at my side at events like this, not as my guest but as my partner. Someone who would appreciate the beauty without being impressed by the power. Someone who would ground me when the political theater became too much.
Could I be more pompous?
The self-awareness hits like a cold splash of water. Here I am, mentally redesigning this woman’s entire life around my wealth and access, as if she’s some project to be managed or prize to be won. As if she couldn’t achieve any of this on her own, as if her amazement at the ambassador’s residence means she’s been waiting her whole life for someone like me to elevate her circumstances.
But even as I mock myself, I can’t shake the feeling. The rightness of her being here. The way she fits.
Sydney squeezes my forearm. “Look at that staircase.”
The elaborately carved staircase is beautiful. “I believe that leads to the private chambers,” I say, knowing this only because I glimpsed a small sign and the passage is blocked with a velvet rope.
“I’ve never seen such a beautiful railing,” she says, more to herself than to me.
Here it comes. The autopilot response, honed through years of practice. The casual reference to a shared future that sounds romantic but commits to nothing. I can feel the words forming—smooth, charming, and ultimately hollow.
“Remember it. When we build a home we can have one commissioned.”
But as the words leave my mouth, something shifts. This isn’t just another line. The image in my mind isn’t vague or theoretical—it’s specific. Sydney running her hand along a custom-carved railing in a home we designed together. Morning coffee in a kitchen we chose together. The kind of domestic intimacy I’ve avoided since splitting with my ex. Surprise flashes across her features. “If you like.”
The addendum tumbles out, an attempt to backpedal, to restore the casual nature of the comment. But it’s too late. I can hear the difference in my own voice, the way the suggestion carried weight instead of practiced lightness.
Her eyes narrow, studying me with an intensity that makes me wonder what she sees. Then she seemingly dismisses whatever conclusion she’s reached as we step outside onto the terrace and she takes in the guests.
But I can’t dismiss it as easily. Because for the first time in years, when I mentioned building a future with someone, part of me—a part I’m not quite ready to acknowledge—actually meant it.
Senator Crawford sees us and holds up a champagne flute in acknowledgement. A woman, presumably his wife, shifts to see who he is addressing. She’s in a royal blue floor-length gown. A sapphire necklace leads enticingly to her decolletage boosted by her strapless dress. As we approach, I notice the dress and jewelry set off matching blue eyes, but there’s a coldness there. She has the expression of a taskmaster or a haughty professor.
Crawford stands by her side but the tension between the two of them is hard to miss. Crawford extends his hand.
“Rhodes. It’s a beautiful night, is it not?”
He’s right, it is. As we stand on the terrace surveying the crowd, the festive aura is impossible to disregard. Golden light spheres and candles glimmer throughout the terrain, including bobbing in the pool for a magical effect.
“It is.” My fingers fall over Sydney’s where they rest on my forearm. “May I introduce my date? Sydney Parker, this is Senator Crawford. And I’m sorry–” I stop myself, as I realize this might not be his wife, but he picks up where I awkwardly stopped.
