Chapter 25
[ 493 words ]
Chapter 25:
“And your last name,” Mr. Thompson whispered, his eyes wide as the final piece of the puzzle clicked into place. “Romero… you’re not… you can’t be one of the Romeros?”
The words the Romeros hit the room like a physical shockwave. In D.C., the Romeros were royalty. They were the ultimate “Old Money”—the invisible hands that funded campaigns, built hospitals, and shaped foreign policy.
Mrs. Thompson’s face went completely pale, then rapidly flushed with a violent, intoxicating wave of ecstasy and reverence. She looked at Jarrod as if he were a deity who had just descended into her living room. In her mind, Preston Finch and his miserable little Wall Street salary were instantly incinerated.
Mr. Thompson scrambled to his feet. He practically bowed as he reached across the coffee table, his hand shaking violently. “It is an absolute honor to meet you, sir. Colonel.”
Jarrod stood up smoothly. He reached out with his left hand and gave Mr. Thompson’s hand a firm, brief shake.
“Please,” Jarrod said, his voice warm and perfectly modulated. “Just call me Jarrod, Father.”
The word Father coming from the mouth of a billionaire defense advisor made Mr. Thompson’s chest puff out so far the buttons on his shirt strained. He beamed, looking like he might pass out from pride.
Mrs. Thompson leaped up and rushed over to Caroline. She grabbed Caroline’s free hand, squeezing it painfully tight. “Oh, Caroline! My brilliant, beautiful girl! I always knew you had such exquisite taste! A Romero! I can’t believe it!”
𝖰𝘂а𝗹ity tr𝘢𝗻𝘀𝗹𝖺𝘁𝗂оո𝘀 oո 𝗴а𝘭𝘯о𝗏𝗲l𝘴.𝘤𝘰𝘮
Caroline sat frozen on the armrest. She looked at her mother’s fawning, greedy smile. She looked at her father’s pathetic, bowing posture.
A wave of pure, acidic nausea rose in her throat.
She felt like a complete outsider in her own home. Her feelings, her fears, her near-death experience—none of it mattered. The only thing her parents cared about was the zeroes in Jarrod’s bank account and the rank on his uniform.
She violently yanked her hand out of her mother’s grasp. She stood up, her face pale and her eyes dead.
“I’m going to the kitchen to get some snacks,” Caroline said, her voice trembling with suppressed disgust.
She didn’t wait for a response. She turned and fled the living room, pushing through the swinging door into the kitchen.
She leaned heavily against the cold marble countertop, gripping the edge until her knuckles turned white. She closed her eyes, panting, trying to fight down the bile in her throat.
From the living room, she could hear her parents’ high-pitched, sycophantic laughter, mixed with Jarrod’s smooth, commanding replies.
He had done it. With a few boxes and a title, Jarrod Romero had brutally and efficiently bought her parents’ absolute loyalty. She was completely, utterly trapped.
Caroline hid in the kitchen for ten agonizing minutes. She stared at the stainless-steel refrigerator, taking slow, deep breaths to calm the frantic racing of her heart. The sound of her parents fawning over Jarrod in the next room made her skin crawl.
The swinging door creaked open.
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