26. Hunter

TWENTY-SIX

HUNTER

I t's ignorant to forget about Blair and my father, but for the first time in what feels like forever, I've been committed to living.

I've dedicated the past few weeks to connecting with August, inch by inch. He's even let me play a video game with him, even though he didn't talk to me the entire time and he soundly beat me in every match. Which I could tell delighted him.

Winter and Kitty spend many of their days and nights at Amelia Manor, which is a totally novel experience—having a woman in my space as a permanent fixture. I don't hate it.

I'm as new to the dating thing as she is, in all honesty. But I'm finding it exhilarating to plan different excursions for the two of us around the area, simply for the excitement of seeing her joyful reaction. The day before yesterday, she and I finally went to Tavalia, and the chef indeed was making statements with his food.

After we left, we stopped at a dim sum restaurant that had excellent ratings on Yelp and filled up on dumplings. Afterward, we went to a small live music venue to hear an indie singer-songwriter perform an unplugged set .

Our mouths made love in the dark corner of the music hall, and when I got her home with me at Amelia Manor, we held each other, talking in hushed murmurs about life, until the sun came up.

I allowed myself to forget the terrible realities brewing outside of my permeable bubble, but I can forget a lot when I have Winter in my arms.

I can forget that my father is using me as a pawn in one of his fucked-up games.

I can forget that I've killed people at my father's order and that I've wrecked lives.

I can forget that I've deeply hurt my son with my abandonment, and now I have the impossible task of making it right.

I can forget.

Until I can't.

"I like the gold-embossed invitations with the ivory card stock over the cream ones. What do you think, Hunter?" Blair looks at me with bright eyes. We're sitting in the upscale meeting room of D.C.'s most sought-after wedding planner. It's the day before Christmas Eve, but that does little to dissuade Blair Winthrope from calling me into the heart of the city for a wedding meeting.

Despite the slushy, frigid weather, Blair looks immaculate, as always.

I'm sporting a five o'clock shadow and a stress migraine.

The migraine cropped up as soon as I saw her wearing the pear-shaped diamond engagement ring on her left hand. My mother's ring. My father must have given it to her.

"They're nice," I reply.

Her eyes flicker as if suppressing an eye roll.

"We can get 500 printed in the next month. The save the dates have also been prepared for your final approval." The wedding planner leaves the room to grab the save the dates, and Blair and I find ourselves in an uncomfortable silence .

"You know," she says after a full minute. "You could at least pretend to like me a little. The whole disinterested fiancé thing isn't that unusual. But playing it like you hate my guts is just weird."

I look at the side of her face. Her back is straight—as if someone shoved a stick up her ass. And maybe they did. She's pointedly not looking at me, but her eyes are sharp.

The wedding planner's return saves me from having to reply.

Blair and the woman—I think she said it was Marianne or Maria or something like that—ooh and ah over the prints while I sit and contemplate what I must have done wrong in a past life to end up in this spot.

But if things were different, you wouldn't have Winter.

I close my eyes at the thought. Do I have Winter? Will I have Winter when all this is said and done? And how the fuck am I going to explain all this to her?

"Hey, babe, I know you're super vulnerable right now, and I'm so stupidly in love with you, but there's one little issue…"

I swallow against the ball of anxiety. Of all the things my father has taken from me, losing August or Winter would be the things I wouldn't get over.

Then you better suck it up, buttercup.

I draw in a long breath and sit up to pay attention to the conversation.

"On your itinerary for today, you have a meeting with the event coordinator to choose the color scheme for the wedding, your engagement photo shoot in the next hour, and you need to approve the menu for the engagement party at the end of next week."

My head jerks. "Next week?"

Blair looks at me, and her eyes narrow slightly. "Yes, honey," she says with a tight smile. "Remember we chose next week? I know you have those meetings the following week, so that's why we chose New Year's Eve." Her voice raises slightly on the last few words.

I smile back at her, my mouth just as strained. "That's right. My apologies."

She turns back to the wedding planner, who taps on her iPhone.

"Blair, hair and makeup are ready for you. Hunter, you can also meet your stylist," Marianne/Maria says.

Blair pulls her phone out when we leave the wedding planner's office, and we ride down the elevator to the first floor in silence.

She doesn't try to engage with me. Once the doors open, she pastes on a friendly smile and waves at the stylists and crew that litter the large ballroom.

The people who planned this whole thing—Blair, the wedding planner, who knows—decided that our nuptials requires all the pageantry that any other wedding for people with last names like ours would require.

They've converted the ballroom into a full-scale studio. Separate hair and makeup stations line the room's far end and a craft table with food and drinks is on the other. In the center are three different stages with ornate backgrounds and expensive-looking furniture.

"Mr.Brigham, right this way, please." A young guy who has to be in his early twenties damn near runs up to me and tries to whisk me away. I follow behind him, and I can tell he's slowing down so he doesn't outpace me.

Three minutes later, I'm in a chair, tilting my head back and getting powder slapped on my face. An assistant shows the photographer and another person three different tie options when the air shifts.

"I need a minute with my soon to be son-in-law," a deep voice says with a sure cadence. Morris Winthrope.

I lower my head to watch the man's entrance.

Everyone scatters, and even though there were five people millin g around the small dressing station, we're completely alone in seconds.

Morris walks further into the room, rounding my chair and standing with his back to the lit mirror.

"Hunter, I was hoping you could spare a moment to speak with me," he begins with a friendly tone.

"Well, Morris, seeing as you've cleared out the room, why not." I attempt an unoffensive tone.

He releases a closed-mouth chortle, but he still looks amused. He leans against the makeup table, crossing his arms.

"My Blair has told me that there are some issues with your engagement. I told her that couldn't be and surely there was a simple misunderstanding. But when Blair is upset, I will always intervene. And my Blair is upset."

He leans closer, his arms still crossed. His face morphs, the friendly look edged out with quiet aggression. "What's the problem, Hunter?"

I swallow. "Problem? There's no issue, Morris," I say through numb, lying lips. There are all the problems in the world. But I can't solve any of them without help.

Where the fuck is Misha Hroshko?

"Oh, good." He stands up to his full height, straightening his suit jacket and cuffs. "Because if there were a problem, we'd definitely have to solve it, wouldn't we? The show must go on," he says.

"Nope," I say with lighthearted emphasis I don't feel. "Nothing happening at all that I'm aware of."

I'm quiet as he assesses me. His head tilts to the side as his eyes roam across my face. Then with a quick breath, he straightens again. "Hunter, you've been away from this place for too long. We haven't spent much time together, but I know you never cared for politics. What I think you fail to realize is that every facet of your life is political."

"How so?" I ask, clearing my throat .

He smiles. It's cold. "You're a Brigham. I am a Winthrope. Surely you can see the benefit of the two most powerful modern American families uniting in marriage and blood?"

I want none of this.

"It'd be a political win," I reply.

"Yes, very much so." He leans forward, lowering his voice. "Can I tell you a secret, Hunter?" he asks conspiratorially.

"Sure," I say. Fuck off, I think.

"Next month I'm announcing my run for President." His eyes sparkle, and I notice the flush that comes to his cheeks at the words. The air around him changes, and it feels almost sexual.

"Ah. Let me be the first to congratulate you. I wish you much success."

He does that head tilt thing again.

"When we win, it will be world-changing," he says in a low, energized voice.

His confidence is unsurprising. He is a powerful man in his own right. Born from a long line of wealthy businessmen, he's known as a mogul in the world of business.

He owns hotels, restaurants—hell, I think he even started a college at one point.

But from the way he talks, it doesn't feel like he's manifesting his win. It's already been assured.

"We all have a part to play in this election process, Hunter." He walks over to the basket of small water bottles in the corner of my station. He tosses one to me and I catch it. He uncaps his bottle, drinking it down in five big gulps.

"I know the way this marriage came about isn't the most romantic," he says. His tone comes off almost as if he cares.

He's an actor.

"But you'll find that your commitment to this process will be well-rewarded." He tosses the empty bottle into the waste bin, sinking the shot .

"Anyway," he says, taking a step toward me—to where I sit, still unmoving. "Just remember, when you're in the spotlight like we are, we're always being observed. Watched." My brain immediately goes to Winter. We've been public with our dates because I haven't wanted to hide her, to keep her locked away. I want to shout our love to the world like Tom Cruise on Oprah.

Now, I find deep regret at my idiocy. Does he know about Winter? Who knows about Winter? I'd already set Winter up with security, but is it enough?

Dread congeals in my gut, twisting my intestine into a searing knot.

He places his hand on my shoulder, and the black onyx stone at the center of his ring sparkles in the set lighting.

"Be careful, Hunter," he says. His expression is open. But his gaze? Lethal.

I fix my lips to tell the biggest lie of my life. "I am committed to your daughter, Sir."

He squeezes my shoulder tight before releasing me and stepping away. "Wonderful. Well, enjoy the shoot. Blair looks stunning, if I may say so. I tell you what, if she weren't my daughter, she'd be exactly the type I'd go for. Consider yourself lucky."

He winks at me, and I swallow down disgust at his lecherous statement.

"Right on," I say. My whole face is numb.

With that, he exits, and the team returns to the station, hurrying through their checklist to get us back on schedule.

When I slip on the navy suit, looking at the ceiling as a photographer's assistant straightens my tie, I accept that I'm not in a David and Goliath fight. It's more like I'm the fly, and they are the spider.

And I'm trapped in the web.

"Follow the plan, H. Follow along with the marriage shit until we can get your father out of the way," Leo says, his voice low.

We're sitting in a diner in Vienna, Virginia. The insane routes we took, then hopping on the metro until the orange line ended, meant we could feel safe enough to meet where we knew no one would follow us.

Still, we're sitting in the back of the diner, baseball caps pulled low, untouched cups of coffee on the counter in front of us.

I'd laugh at the cliché if things weren't so deadly serious.

"Leo, I'm over it at this point. Why can't we just walk up to him at his next dinner and put a bullet in his head?"

Leo looks at me sharply.

"Well, first, I'm not sure you'd want to spend the rest of your life in prison. Luckily, Maryland and Virginia abolished the death penalty."

"At this point, I'm already in prison. I'm signing my life away, my fucking sperm away, and—" I look around the diner. The rest of the customers aren't paying any attention to us.

"This isn't permanent. It's a means to an end, H. I'm getting Misha on board and tracking down who sent us that clip and why. We have one shot to get this right. Be patient." Leo grabs a sugar packet and pours it into his coffee.

I rub my temples. Getting through to Misha Hroshko is taking forever . There's been no movement since our last conversation.

He has what we need if we're going to overthrow my father, but he's all but ghosted us.

"It's not just you who stands to lose against your father. You ha ve the Brigham name and wealth behind you, but I have nothing. Nothing except BwP."

The reality is that we have nowhere near the power, resources, or influence to knock my father off his throne and not get killed in the process.

It's a fucking lose-lose situation.

Resentment at my powerlessness in this story chokes me.

"This is all so fucking convoluted at this point. There's BwP. Now there's the fact that Morris Winthrope and my father are planning some kind of presidential alliance born out of my offspring with Blair. Misha might not even help us. We're always two fucking steps behind." I swing to slam my fist on the table, pulling the punch at the last second to avoid attracting attention.

"Be patient," Leo says. "Misha Hroshko will?—"

"We don't even know where Misha Hroshko is or what he really wants. Plus, you want me to be patient—you're not the one who has to do all this shit," I say.

The mix of aggression and testosterone swirls between us, the volley of our words against each other landing harder with each swing.

"And who's fault is that?" Leo crushes the empty sugar packet with his fist.

"What the hell do you mean by that, Leo?"

He doesn't say anything.

"What the fuck do you mean by that, Leo?" I repeat.

He explodes, his voice a barely constrained hiss. "I mean that if you hadn't ratted your mother out all those years ago, maybe we wouldn't be sitting here right now. "

I stare at him, anger and rage and shame at the long locked-away sin rising to coat my skin.

Leo knows almost all of my secrets. Except this one. He doesn't know what really went down the night my mother died, but he has enough information to make assumptions.

He's not far off .

"How dare you say that to me, Leonardo? Do you think that I could have stopped him? That she could have stopped him? That the judicial system—the same system that he has in his pocket—could have stopped him? What could I have possibly done?"

"Well, step one: don't fucking tell your father your mother's plans. Maybe she'd be alive, and maybe he wouldn't be."

The world tilts on its axis at my friend's words. He looks like he regrets them as soon as the words leave him.

"Hunter—"

"I had no other choice. You know what he was like," I mumble, my lips numb. The burn marks marring my body pulse with the memory of how I got them.

The torture I endured at my father's command.

Amelia Brigham was too gentle to be Benjamin Brigham's wife. That's the truth. My mother was raised much like Blair was: to be beautiful and unapproachable. To be seen but never heard.

But when she learned what was happening at Isla Cara—the corruption, the crimes against humanity—on top of what was happening in her home, she discovered her bravery. She, along with the FBI, created a scheme to catch my father in one of his many crimes.

Her bravery was not rewarded.

Father learned of her defection, and she was taken out before anything could come of her strength.

The official record says that Amelia Brigham died in a boating accident. I know that is untrue.

And the reason for her death? It's because I couldn't be strong against the immutable power of Benjamin Brigham.

He pressed, and I bent.

Leo is quiet and says, "I know you didn't have any other choice, Hunter." He sighs wearily like he's exhausted. "I'm sorry I said that."

I laugh dryly, not letting it go. "You, especially you, know what h e did to people. You know what he did to me. I was just a kid—a kid he tortured until he got the information he wanted."

My coffee is now cold, not that I would drink it anyway.

"Let's talk about the plan from here," Leo says.

"What's there to talk about? Play along with this sham. Figure out how to take him down— if we can take him down. Pray Misha Hroshko will deign to work with us. Then we move on," I say. "BwP is safe in the meantime. August is safe in the meantime. I just have to suck it up."

I force my brain to not think about all the things I lose with this plan.

All the pain I'll cause other people by following through.

Specifically, I try to not think about Winter.

Leo's phone buzzes, and he abruptly leaves the table when he reads the caller ID. When he doesn't return fifteen minutes later, I determine he's gone for good.

The waitress comes by and removes the coffee cups.

"I don't mind you staying here, honey, but my shift ends in ten minutes," she says pointedly. I nod and drop a hundred-dollar bill on the table.

"Thank you, sugar!" she shouts as I exit the diner.

The sharp point of the freezing rain threatens to pierce my skin as I make my way back toward the train. Every step resonates, acting as an anchor point to my emotions.

I don't ever allow myself to think about my mother. I don't allow myself the privilege of doing so. Of being a keeper of her memory.

Because despite wanting to protect her, wanting to see her succeed in her quest to rid the world of my father, I still told him everything he wanted to know.

Limp, broken, literally flayed open on the marble floor at Isla Cara, my bruised lips spilled my mother's secrets.

By the next morning, she was gone. Dead.

I can't quiet my thoughts, so I don't try to .

He's right. I did kill her. I had my chance to take down Benjamin Brigham. I failed.

I walk back toward the metro, deciding as I stand on the platform whether to follow the path back toward Amelia Manor, or to change course, ending up on the green line to take me further into D.C. In the jumble of my choices, one thought rings plain: I'm so completely alone.

I always have been.

And I always should be.