Page 22 of No Longer Mine
The wonderful thingabout visiting my parents’ upstate mansion was that I didn’t have to pretend. I didn’t have to be Councilman Dimitri. I didn’t have to play the charming, reform-driven candidate. I didn’t have to fake interest in people I wanted nothing to do with. Here, I could be me, snd me was the psychopath everyone in this house had helped create.
I could drink as much as I wanted, speak without a filter, and enjoy the chaos that came with our dysfunctional family gatherings. Nothing ever got out. Sinclair Cristof made sure of that.
Don disagreed. He insisted that if footage of me actually being myself ever leaked, it would only make me more likable. More dangerous. More untouchable.
I wasn’t so sure.
But I was willing to enjoy the night anyway.
Benson was already tapped into the estate’s security, watching everything from his end. Don, on the other hand, was accompanying me in person. I wasn’t sure if it was for my protection or his own curiosity. Probably both.
I strolled into my mother’s grand entryway with a beer in hand.
She was waiting for me, standing poised as ever with a smile that looked almost too bright to be real.
Before I could say a word, she surged forward, wrapping her arms around me.
Her hair curled perfectly around her heart-shaped face, her makeup dusted on in a way that made it seem effortless. It was all part of the illusion.
“It’s been too long,” she murmured, kissing both of my cheeks like I was an old friend rather than her son.
I hated it.
But I smiled anyway. I played along because I knew Father was lurking somewhere nearby. If he wasn’t, she would have already started drilling me about the campaign I’d been ignoring her calls over.
“I’m so happy to have you here,” she said before her eyes flicked over my shoulder. Her expression shifted—subtle, but noticeable. “And who’s your friend?”
Don was standing in the doorway, carrying both of our bags with ease.
I didn’t have to turn to see the way his eyes subtly scanned the grandeur of the estate. No one else would be able to tell that he was assessing the house just as much as he was admiring it. I could tell. I’d spent too much time with him to not notice his small tells.
“This is Don,” I said as he stepped forward.
Ever the gentleman, Don reached for my mother’s hand and kissed it lightly. “Pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Cristof.”
She smiled, polite but cautious, before withdrawing her hand. “And you are?”
“My driver,” I said. “And security.”
Mother reeled back slightly, barely masking her surprise. “Security? Here?”
I shrugged. “Formality at this point. I’m not making him drive back home.”
She blinked, processing that, then narrowed her eyes slightly. “He lives with you?”
I took another sip of my beer, unfazed. “Where else would he live? I need protection around the clock.”
Her mask slipped for just a second.
“I didn’t think you were actually serious about this campaign,” she admitted, and for the first time in years, I saw something close to genuine emotion on her face.
Neither did I.
London had already been up in arms over me missing the fundraisers this weekend, insisting I make up for it with wholesome family pictures to soften the blow. I knew the drill. My social media would have to be flooded with perfectly staged moments.
I hated this shit.
“I’m about as serious as one can be,” I said, letting the words hang between us.
