Free DARK PARADISE - A Political Romantic Suspense by Winter Renshaw

wears at all times is only ever for the camera, and that helmet head
hairstyle of hers pays homage to First Ladies of yesteryear, back when America
was truly beloved and its citizens placed blind trust in the families who lead
it. Her wardrobe consists of mostly pastels, a nod to holidays like Easter, which
is synonymous with family values and gatherings.
    Beneath that carefully crafted
façade lies one of the greatest masterminds of this generation. What Busy
wants, Busy gets. How else could the eighth daughter of a destitute coal miner from
rural Kentucky grow up to marry the son of President JL Montgomery?
    “Be polite and say hello. Don’t
make this awkward for both families.” Mother says, her voice audible only to
me. “And that’s an order, not a request. You do not have a choice.”
    “Everyone has a choice.”
    “Not when you’re a Montgomery,
dear.” She taps me twice on my shoulder before pasting a smile on her face.
Before I can protest, she walks away to offer Vice President Darlington an absolutely divine blueberry muffin.
    The solarium is small enough
that I couldn’t avoid Lydia if I tried. My father stands outside at the grill,
stirring potatoes in a grill basket and wearing a canvas apron with the
Presidential Seal logoed across the front.
    If my brother were here I could
shoot the breeze with him until the inevitable, but alas, he’s late as usual.
    “Good morning.” The sing-song
voice that once set my soul at ease sends an unwelcome jolt down my spine.
    I don’t have to see or hear
Lydia to know she’s standing directly behind me. I feel it—that heavy energy,
that sick thud in my chest, like a pesky houseguest who refuses to leave.
    I pull my shoulders tight and
turn to face her, staring down at the same shiny emerald eyes I used to love.
They’re not as bright anymore. Years of being an evil human being have left
them tarnished.
    “Hi.” I don’t disguise my
disdain as she studies my face.
    “You look good.” The second
thing out of her mouth is typical Lydia: flattery as an icebreaker. “How have
you been?”
    The third thing out of her
mouth is a tactic to place the ball in my court, to get me to open up to her
under the guise of a benign, quintessentially American conversation starter.
    “Small talk, Lydia? Really?
After all these years.” I huff, pouring myself a coffee simply because it
allows me to turn away from her for a moment. She steps closer, cornering me.
    “Is it too much to ask that
we’re cordial to each another?” Her voice holds an innocent quality, but I know
better.
    “We threw cordial out the
window a long time ago.” I pour two creamers and a sugar into my mug and stir
until the liquid swirls. I’m not going to drink it. I just want her to know
that right here, in this moment, this stupid little cup of coffee is more
important to me than she is. It’s more deserving of my time and attention than
anyone else in this room.
    “I made a mistake. A big one.”
    I’ve heard that line several
times before. She’s famous for it as far as our history is concerned. You don’t
spend twelve years on and off with a woman and not figure out her patterns and
strategies after a while.
    “Let me guess: you still love
me, you realized you’re only ever going to love me, you were young and foolish,
you were scared, and you know now that we’re meant to spend the rest of our
lives together.” I repeat her old lines before she has the chance. It’s more
efficient that way. “Oh, wait. I forgot the one about being each other’s first
loves, and that there was a reason we keep coming back to each other.”
    Her jaw falls, and her arms
fold across her wrinkle-free linen dress. A tiny American flag pin is attached
below her collarbone, and it sparkles in the sunlight.
    “What’s wrong, Lydia? Take the
words right out of your mouth?” I smirk.
    A friend of my father’s stands
within earshot of us, and I spot him whipping his head in our direction. This
isn’t