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But Arden looked small and sad, and something about it made me want to shield her from the kind of judgment I knew she’d get tonight if people saw her like this.

“C’mon,” I said, lifting her up and bracing her with an arm around her side. “Let’s get you home.”

I grabbed a bath towel from a hook behind the door and wiped her face before tossing it at an overflowing laundry basket in the corner, and then I opened the bedroom door and walked her out.

We managed to avoid most everyone on the way out, and by the time we made it the few blocks to her sorority house, she was mumbling unintelligible words about me, my dad, her career, the fundraiser, and how everything was ruined.

Thankfully, one of her housemates was home, so I was able to hand her over with only a short lecture from the girl on treating Arden like shit and ruining the best thing I ever had.

They were words my own father would give me the minute he found out about the breakup.

I was pretty sure he still hadn’t heard, although I wasn’t sure how that was possible. I mean, I sure as fuck hadn’t told him—despite all my campaign appearances, we’d barely exchanged a dozen words. But I’d imagined Arden would have gone back inside the fundraiser the night of our breakup and immediately ratted me out.

I’d been waiting for his angry rant ever since.

My father thought Arden was the perfect match for me, the critical missing piece in my future bid for office.

I saw her as one more thing in my life that appealed more to my father’s idea of me than to my real self. Whoever the fuck that turned out to be.

I returned to my own room angrier than ever. Angry because my plans for the night had been ruined. Angry because I still owed my friends money, and I had no fucking clue how to get it. But mostly angry because… I didn’t know what kind of woman I pictured myself with.

Because I’d never actually known a Bett McNeely without Senator McNeely’s strong influence and opinions.

What would my life look like if I made decisions outside of the power vacuum?

I thought back to the woman who’d been with Vaughn earlier. Rowan, with her piercings and ink and low-cut dress. She was beautiful and sexy, but screamed “low-class”—words that had been spoken by Garrett a few weeks ago, even though they could have just as easily been spoken in my father’s voice. I’d heard him say shit like that many times.

Sometimes it seemed like my father’s voice was the only one in my head. Like it had been too strong to allow me to develop my own.

Thankfully, Vaughn and his date weren’t in my room when I returned. I quickly changed into sleep shorts and brushed my teeth before sliding between the covers of my narrow bed.

Anger still vibrated under my skin as I tried to calm down enough to run through a meditation sequence. Instead, I found myself thinking back to last year.

My maternal grandfather had set up a trust fund for me with a share of his lumber company—a company that had been in my family for generations. I was the only child of his only child, which theoretically meant the entire company would come to me one day. But first, it would presumably go to my mother, who was completely under my father’s thumb.

And my grandfather had complete respect for my father… which meant when I’d asked Grandad if I could take a loan against my trust to pay for law school, he’d immediately asked my father if we were having financial problems.

My father… had not handled it well.

I gritted my teeth and tried starting my meditation sequence again.

Somehow, I caught a break. Because I fell asleep and slept right through Elliot Vaughn’s return to the room… and whatever the hell he might have gotten up to in his bed when he got there.

The next morning, I blinked my eyes open to see him still asleep. He was dressed only in a dark red pair of boxer briefs with his sheets kicked off and his legs spread, one large foot hanging off the side and the other bent up against the wall.

Thankfully, he was alone. But then again, he never let his sex partners stay the night. It was a small thing, but one I was extremely grateful for.

I stared at the bulge behind the smooth cotton of his briefs before moving my eyes up along his dark happy trail to the bumps of his abs. How the fuck was he so ripped?

The guy worked part-time in a mechanic’s garage. It was hardly the kind of work that resulted in a six-pack.

Did he get that body fighting at the Pit?

My eyes traced his skin for any evidence of injury, but all I found were miles and miles of skin, ink, and firm muscle.

The tattoos over his shoulder and back were made up of swirls and scrollwork, feathers and fern leaves. Some of it seemed like a memorial to his mother, while some of it featured almost-hidden vintage motorcycle parts. I imagined it would take hours of tracing it with my fingers to pick out every detail.

Not that I ever would.