Page 42 of Devil’s Promise

I assess him for a moment, trying to determine his motives. I have no idea if he’s taunting me or encouraging me, but either way his words stiffen my spine. I start following my father and Angel, knowing that I need to keep fighting.

Because Gunner is right. This game isn’t over.

And even though I know I’m not going to win, I made a promise to keep fighting.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Promise

Tricia, the wedding planner, hasn’t addressed me in a half hour. She talks to Angel, explaining the floral arrangements, the sequence of events, the cake.

He doesn’t speak to me either.

And somewhere, over the course of the meeting, Tricia’s interest has shifted from my father to the man who is about to be my husband.

Angel is doing an amazing job of practicing each and every one of my lessons. I wonder what Tricia would think of him if she visited his club?

It’s an ugly thought, because I’m honestly feeling jealous. And I’m somehow painting myself in this light of being better for him than she would be.

Which is stupid.

I’m being forced to marry him. He straight up told me he isn’t a good guy. He’s not in any of this for me, other than jerking off over various parts of my body.

But by the time we head back into the press room, I’ve returned to playing my part. Somehow, being with Angel the last twenty-four hours had made me relax in ways I hadn’t for actual years. And being back in my father’s orbit, all the tension has returned, only it’s worse.

One, because I actually lived for a hot second without it. And two, whatever I thought might be happening with Angel was a complete fabrication in my own head.

I must be desperate for a white knight, because of all the men to paint with a hero brush, I picked the man who runs a whorehouse.

Angel comes back to my side, taking my hand and placing it in his elbow. But I’m numb now, and I barely notice. What’s more, I don’t feel anything at his touch.

I guess my ability to turn off my voice, my feelings, now applies to him. The moment we step into the room, I smile dutifully, walk in the direction I’m pointed, stand on the marked spot on the floor.

The cameras flash, as Angel is directed to sit to the right of the podium, while I remain standing next to my father, placed between them.

Tricia is on the stage, as is my father’s campaign manager, and two aides.

My father grabs my arms, spinning me to face another reporter who wants a picture.

I dutifully pose, barely making eye contact.

“Promise, have you started speaking since the engagement?” one reporter shouts.

Another asks a question before I can even wrinkle my nose. “How does your fiancé feel about silence? Does it make the relationship harder?”

“Will you continue to campaign with your father?”

“Promise, will you be silent with your children?”

“Have you sought counseling for your impairment?”

“Do you harbor any guilt over how you’ve negatively impacted your father’s campaign?”

It’s the last one, fired off from a female reporter in the front row, that has me spinning away, out of my father’s hands. But as I do, cameras still flashing away, my foot catches on something, and suddenly, I’m falling.

I have no idea where I’m going to land, where I’m going to hit.

But a steel band comes around my waist and then…