When the Prez Chose Her, I Chose His Enemy

Chapter 2

I stood in the clinic corridor, watching him disappear around the corner.

The numbness had receded, replaced by something sharper—the clarity of someone who'd finally stopped hoping for a different answer.

That morning, I sat in the Iron Vipers' clubhouse office, the transfer papers spread across the scarred wooden desk. My signature was still drying at the bottom of the page.

The room smelled like stale beer, cigarette smoke, and leather—the permanent perfume of any MC clubhouse. Faded photos of runs from the '90s covered the walls. A pool table sat in the corner, its felt stained with old whiskey rings.

The club's original charter patch stared up at me from the wall, a reminder of who I was before I'd decided that love was more important than legacy.

Three years I'd set this aside. Three years I'd chosen Cole over everything else.

No more.

My contact—an old family friend who'd run the legitimate side of operations for years—hesitated as he reviewed the documents.

"This is a major move, Vivian. Out-of-state charter transfer. You sure you don't wanna talk to your old man about this? You're not single anymore. You got a family now. Don't make such a big decision without consulting him."

I signed the last page without looking up. "No need."

He opened his mouth, then closed it, reading something in my expression that made him reconsider.

I slid the documents across the desk. "Send these through. I want the transfer processed by the end of the week."

As I walked out of the office, I passed two patch holders in the main room. One of them—the VP, a grizzled man named Bull—looked up from his beer.

"She ain't patched," Bull muttered to the other. "Why she got a seat at the table?"

The other shrugged. "Prez's old lady. What can you do?"

I kept walking. I'd heard those words before. They just didn't sting anymore.

Later that day, I sat in the clubhouse kitchen, the transfer papers spread before me. The kitchen was a disaster—dirty mugs in the sink, a half-empty bottle of Jack on the counter, the smell of last night's burgers still lingering.

My phone buzzed. Lila.

Lila: I know about the surgery. I'm taking time off to be with you. Hurry up and get the spare room ready—I'm coming over to be your personal nurse!

I smiled, genuinely, for the first time in weeks.

Vivian: The spare room is cleaned twice. I bought you new sheets. I promise you'll—

I stopped mid-sentence.

The clubhouse door swung open.

Cole's voice drifted through the foyer, warm and easy. "The BBQ was amazing. Can't believe we almost missed that place."

Skyler's laugh followed. "The cornbread was the real star. Thanks for bringing me, Prez. I was so down about my living situation, but today was perfect."

They rounded the corner and saw me standing there, phone in hand.

"You're here," Cole said flatly.

"I live here."

Skyler stepped forward, her voice dipping into apology.

"Mrs. Cole, I hope you don't mind. The Prez was kind enough to help me—my roommate's old man is in the Devil's Hand MC, and things got ugly. I got nowhere to stay. I'm looking for a new place, but in the meantime, he said I could use the spare room for a few days."

I looked at Cole. "The spare room?"

"Skyler's having trouble with her situation. She's planning to move out, but she needs somewhere to stay while she finds a new place." His voice was matter-of-fact. "It's temporary. She'll stay in the spare room."

I smiled—cold and sharp. "Cole. I told you a week ago. Lila is coming to stay. She's coming for the surgery."

Cole blinked. The memory surfaced and vanished, too trivial to hold onto.

"What surgery?"

"The one I have tomorrow." My voice was calm. "The one I told you about. At the clinic. The same one you said you'd be there for."

His expression flickered. I could see him searching his memory and coming up empty.

"What's the problem?" Skyler asked, her voice syrupy. "I can share with your friend. I really don't mind—I'm easy to live with!"

I ignored her.

"You forgot," I said to Cole. "You forgot I have surgery tomorrow, and you forgot Lila was coming to stay."

His jaw tightened. "I didn't think coordinating two guests was important. Lila can get a motel."

I turned and walked to the spare room. I opened the door.

The new sheets I'd bought were crumpled on the floor. A massive stuffed bear sprawled across the bed. Makeup bags littered the nightstand. Clothes spilled from a half-open suitcase. A leather jacket with the Iron Vipers' patch hung on the door—Skyler's jacket, not Lila's.

I felt something cold settle in my chest.

I reached down, grabbed the sheets and the bear, and carried them to the clubhouse entrance. I kicked them out onto the gravel lot and slammed the door.

Skyler's face went white. "Those are my things—my sleeping things—where am I supposed to—"

I smiled. "You can share the Prez's room. I don't mind."

Skyler's eyes filled with tears. "If you don't want me here, just say so! Why do you have to humiliate me?"

She burst into tears and fled down the hallway, her heels clacking against the floor until the sound faded.

Cole stood in the entrance, arms crossed, watching me.

"That was unnecessary."

"Was it?"

"She's just a club bunny. She's careless, but she ain't malicious. You didn't have to humiliate her."

I met his gaze. "This is my home, Cole. When you bring someone here, you discuss it with me. That's what partners do."

His jaw tightened. "Skyler was in danger. Those Devil's Hand assholes were threatening her. I thought you'd have some compassion. Instead, you're throwing a tantrum over a spare room."

"A tantrum." I repeated the word flatly.

"She's staying for two days. Two days. Is that really worth starting a fight over?" He sighed, rubbing his temples. "And it's not like you consulted me about Lila coming to stay either. So don't act like I'm the only one who doesn't share the details."

The irony of his words hit me like a slap.

He'd just compared his bringing a stranger into our home to me inviting my best friend—the woman who was coming to take care of me after surgery.

I opened my mouth to argue. To scream. To throw back every time he'd dismissed me.

But nothing came out.

Because I realized, in that moment, that arguing was pointless. He'd made up his mind. He saw a woman throwing a tantrum, not a woman whose boundaries had been violated.

I thought about the old me—the one who would have called a male friend from a rival club to stay over just to see his reaction, just to prove a point.

That woman was gone.

I looked at him, my voice quiet and calm.

"You're right," I said. "It's not worth the energy. You don't need to run every small choice by me. And I don't need to run mine by you."

I turned and walked back to the kitchen.

If I could move out of Millbrook and break up with Cole without telling him, why would I need to consult him about it?