Deadly Devotion

RORY POV I’m being watched. Someone has been following me, tracking my every move. I don’t know who he is, and I’ve never seen his face clearly. All I know is he’s tall, around 6’3”, broad-shouldered, rides a matte-black motorcycle, and is always dressed head-to-toe in black. You’re probably wondering how I know all that when I’ve never even spoken to him. Simple: he’s been doing this for three years. long enough that I’ve memorized him—the way he leans against that bike, motionless, just… observing. For three years. Yeah. Someone thinks my boring life is fun. Even now, as I exit my last lecture and cross the parking lot toward my Ferrari, I can sense him. That prickling awareness at the base of my skull, the phantom weight of eyes on my skin. I scan the perimeter, but he’s vanished. His motorcycle is somehow absent today. My heart stutters, that traitorous, stupid flutter it does whenever I know he’s near. I should be terrified. I should have reported him years ago. But I’d be lying if I said my stalker doesn’t thrill me. He’s the only unpredictable variable in my meticulously orchestrated existence. Sometimes when I don’t feel him lurking, panic sets in. I’ve become addicted to the adrenaline, the proof that something about me matters enough to pursue. That’s why I’ve never told anyone. I don’t understand why someone would fixate on my life. I mean… Im pathetic as f**k. Despite the fortune, despite residing in the most famous address in America, I’m hollow, I feel like I’m barely living. Yes, that White House. My father is the President of the United States. And I’m his only child, his perfect political accessory. My phone buzzes in my bag, snapping me out of my thoughts. I pull it out and sigh when I see the caller ID. Dad. “Hey, Dad,” I say, forcing as much brightness into my voice as I can. “Your classes ended twenty minutes ago. Where are you, Rory? We need to talk.” His tone is clipped, transactional. No how was your day? No are you alright? No did you learn anything interesting? Father of the goddamn year. “I literally just walked out of my last lecture. I’m heading home now,” I explain, hating how defensive I sound. “Get here immediately. We have visitors, and you need to be present. Turn on your location sharing.” The line goes dead before I can respond. I enable my location and drive home, the familiar knot of dread tightening in my stomach. ****************** By the time I step inside the residence, Elena—my longtime personal assistant, she’s been with me since I was a kid, basically the closest thing I have to a mother now. She meets me in the hall. “They’re waiting for you in the dining room,” she says softly, giving me a sympathetic smile. “Dinner’s already started.” I nod, smooth down my skirt, and walk in. I stop dead in the doorway. It’s the Whitlocks. One of my parents’ oldest, richest allies. They didn’t come alone—they brought their son. Grayson. My boyfriend. “Rory, sweetheart!” Mrs. Whitlock spots me first. She stands and pulls me into a hug that smells like expensive perfume. “Look at you. So beautiful.” “Hello, Mrs. Whitlock. It’s been a while,” I say politely. “I’ve told you a hundred times, call me Catherine. I’m practically your second mother.” No, you’re really not. I smile anyway, then greet Mr. Whitlock and my father. Grayson stands last. He pulls me in, plants a kiss on my forehead like we’re in some fairy tale. I don’t pull away, but I don’t lean in either. We sit. The talk picks up right where it left off, alliances, influence, the future. “Our kids are perfect together,” Catherine says, beaming at us. “Absolutely made for each other.” “Thank you, Catherine,” my father says with that practiced smile. “I can’t wait for the day they’re married. This alliance will be powerful. The country isn’t ready for what we’ll build together.” My stomach twists at the word married. That’s all I am to him. An alliance. A move on a chessboard. He doesn’t care what I want, only how it benefits him. His image. His legacy. Under the table, Grayson’s hand lands on my thigh. His fingers trail slowly upward, slipping under the hem of my skirt. He leans in, voice low against my ear. “Your skin is so soft, baby.” “And your palm is thick,” I whisper back. God, was that sexy? I have no idea. I’m terrible at this. At all of it. We’ve been dating for over three months now. Grayson is a nice guy. He’s cool. Everybody drools over him. They call him the hottest guy in New York. He’s famous, and I kind of like him. I mean, we match, our social lives align, people like us together, so I can’t complain. He’s good for publicity, and maybe marrying him wouldn’t be that bad. Dad says he’s the perfect match. And Dad always knows best, right? “We should take this to the bathroom,” he whispers in my ear again, this time biting it slightly. I nod and stand up. “If you’ll excuse us, Rory wants to show me some things she got from Chanel,” he tells our parents, taking my hand. “Of course! Don’t let us bore you two with politics. Go ahead,” Mr. Whitlock says with a knowing smile. *************** Once we’re in the bathroom, Grayson’s hands are immediately on me, pushing me against the counter, his lips on my neck, hands under my skirt. “Uhm… wait a minute.” I press my palms against his chest. He stops and steps back slightly. “Are we really doing this again, Rory?” he asks, clearly disappointed. “You don’t expect me to have s*x with you in the White House, do you?” I ask. “I only followed you because I didn’t want to listen to the politics gibberish.” “I’m not saying we should have s*x,” he says sheepishly, moving closer again to lift my skirt. “Just make out, maybe suck your t**s and finger you?” “No, Gray. We can do this tomorrow. I could come over to your place. We can have s*x all day. What do you think?” I use the most sultry tone I can manage so he’ll stop. He smiles, not pushing. “Fair. I just wanted to be close to you.” “We can do more tomorrow,” I say quickly. His gives me a tight smile, “Yeah? Promise?” I nod. “Can’t wait,You’re worth it, Rory.” He smacks my butt. Hard and pulls me in for one more rough kiss. “That’s hot?” I breathe, trying to sound turned on. My face probably looks like I just bit into a lemon. “You’re so innocent, Rory,” he laughs. “I can’t wait to have you tomorrow.” Me neither. I need to prove myself wrong.