Page 68 of Shattered Saint
Startled, I looked up and found my father, in full Mayor Henson mode, standing in the doorway of his sanctuary with his arms crossed. I was immediately brought back to when I’d heard him yelling on the phone only a couple of weeks ago and how angry he was. Was he about to yell at me for being on my phone?
As we entered his office, the door closed with a soft thud, sealing us off from the party. My father had decided to have his office designed in shades of deep mahogany and brown and it had been like that for as long as I could remember. The big wooden desk was the focal point of the room. The bookshelf that was built into the wall contained many books and reports. While the room had overhead lights, he preferred to use a single brass lamp on his desk when it grew dark outside.
The shift in energy from the excitement out there to the frosty energy in here, was almost like whiplash. The boulder that was weighing my body down continued to get bigger. I swallowed hard as I wondered what he wanted to talk to me about.
"Sit down, Bianca," my father demanded, gesturing toward one of the leather chairs in front of his desk. Because he wasn’t being more polite, I knew he was pissed. I hesitated for a moment before sinking down into the seat.
My father walked around his desk and grabbed a manila folder. He flipped the file open and pulled out several photos and laid them on the desk in front of me.
If I could have died in this chair, I would have. I immediately started to feel light-headed, I assumed as a result of the blood rapidly draining from my face.
Dad picked up one of the photos, and I immediately recognized the image. It was of me taking a shot of alcohol from Taylor’s cleavage using only my mouth. The photo wasn’t crystal clear, but I remembered the moment, barely. Because my face was toward her breasts and my hair had fallen into my face, it was somewhat hard to tell it was me. However, it was obvious my father had no issue identifying me.
"W-what is this? What are these?" I stuttered. There was no way I was seeing what I thought I was seeing.
"Explain this, Bianca," he said as he dropped the photos onto the desk with a flick of his wrist.
I tried to speak, but no words came out. Instead, my gaze shifted to the next photo in the row. It showed me dancing on the counter of a bar I shouldn’t have even been allowed into.
"Care to tell me what's going on here?" my father continued.
Everything about him was stone cold to the point where I was very afraid.
The remaining photos were pretty bad, including one where I was sprawled across Emma's lap, my dress hiked up just a little too far. Each image was a clear reminder of the wild nights I'd spent with my friends but wasn’t becoming of someone who was the daughter and of a man who had higher aspirations then his current position as Mayor of Brentson.
I was going to throw up. A million thoughts swirled in my head, including wondering how these photos had ended up in my father's possession.
And then came the real punch in my gut as I realized these were the same photos Easton had used to blackmail me into an enemies with benefits relationship with him only a few weeks ago.
That son of a bitch had no issue with betraying me again.
“There’s only one way to stop this from getting out and hurting my political career and our family.”
I looked up at my father, prepared to do anything to make this right. “What’s that?”
“You need to marry Tristan Whitmore.”
* * *
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PREVIEW OF DEVIOUS GAME
RAVEN
The Devious Trilogy is now complete! Continue reading for a taste of Devious Game.
My hand tightened on the steering wheel as I drove past a familiar sign.
Welcome to Brentson
The elaborately designed sign was meant to offer a warm embrace and show Brentson’s hospitality. I could see how newcomers would get warm fuzzies from it. I felt anything but welcomed.
The only thing keeping me calm was the cool breeze that felt like a gentle whisper on my face as I drove through Brentson. Late August into early September was always one of my favorite times here. With the leaves already changing, it painted a pretty picture of my hometown. What should have been a time to bask in remembering the good times I spent here was anything but. I spent many afternoons during high school at Smith’s Ice Cream Parlor—still standing and as popular as ever. Many of my memories there included Nash Henson, someone I tried to forget over the years. And I failed every single time.
