Chapter 6 The coTies

Chapter 6

The Cost of Ties

The windows of the estate cast slanted shadows across the marble floor as Jones Johnson paced the length of his study, phone pressed to his ear, words sharp and deliberate. He wore power like a second skin, navy suit tailored to perfection, cufflinks bearing the family crest, and a gaze that saw through the people he spoke to them On the wall behind him, photographs with governors, presidents, and foreign dignitaries,that formed a mosaic of carefully orchestrated success. But none of them mattered more than what was laying ahead of them.

"Juliet cannot afford another scandal," he said, pausing to glance out from the window at the garden she used to play in, as a child. "Not now, not when my committee is up for vote."

The man on the other end, Mason Belvoir, the powerful shipping magnate, with rumore that ties to the black market-grunted his agreement.

"I'll take care of it," Jones said, and hung up without waiting for confirmation.

He didn't like the way Juliet had been moving lately. She had grown distant-secretive. Ever since Mario returned, she had retreated into the version of herself that Jones had worked so hard to reshape. The girl who read poetry in the garden, who wore leather jackets and argued with bishops-he buried that girl long ago under tailored silk, political salons, and charitable foundations. However, Mario's quiet storms and aging leather scars threatened to uncover her. Jones sank into the leather chair at the edge of his desk, steepling his fingers.

He didn't hate Mario. He just hated what Mario represented, noncompliance, rebellion, the past.

In politics, the past was only useful if it could be weaponized. And Juliet's past? It was powder waiting for a match.

What Juliet didn't understand, or refused to accep, was that everything she did reflected on him now. As a sitting senator with his eyes on the governor's mansion, Jones needed clean associations. He needed her to smile in public, donate to the right causes, and appear beside the right people.

Juliet, lately, had done none of those things.

Instead, she'd pulled away from the elite circles Jones had so carefully curated for her. She'd skipped three galas, refused the engagement proposal from Lionel Thatcher, the blue-blooded lawyer with perfect credentials and no soul-and worse, had been seen having coffee with Mario outside the old train station.

It wasn't just a bad look. It was political suicide.

He picked up a framed photo from his desk, Juliet, beaming at his first swearing-in ceremony as a politician. She had been proud of him then. They were orphans, really, even with both parents still technically alive. A childhood of institutional silence, polite neglect, and ceremonial birthdays. He had sworn to protect her-first from their absentee parents, then from the world.

But protection, in Jones' book, required control.

He stood and walked to the side cabinet, pouring himself a measure of bourbon. The ice cracked loudly as it hit the crystal. He thought back to Belvoir's offer to get rid of Mario. Not literally-though Belvoir had the reach to do that too-but reputationally. A scandal, an audit, a quiet blacklisting.

"Family loyalty is everything," Belvoir had said with a smile. "But family liability? That's a cancer."

Jones leaned against the mahogany and thought about what it meant to protect Juliet now. Could she survive if he let her fall out of grace? Could she withstand the wolves that prowled the elite circuits, ready to pounce on the first sign of weakness?

Anderson was one of them. Smiling, charming, bloodthirsty Anderson, who'd already sunk his teeth into Juliet once. Jones knew about the threats, the letters, the smirks behind champagne glasses. If Mario was dangerous because of what he stirred in Juliet, Anderson was dangerous because of what he intended to do with her.

Jones wanted Mario gone-but he wanted Anderson buried.

If Juliet wouldn't see the stakes, he would have to raise them for her.

He made another call-this time to Clarisse Downing, the head of Juliet's foundation board. He asked her to freeze Juliet's discretionary funds temporarily. A "financial oversight audit," he explained.

Then, he dialed Lionel Thatcher. "Let's revisit that proposal idea," he said. "She's more vulnerable now. Use it."

Juliet would never forgive him for this. But that wasn't the point.

Forgiveness was a luxury for those not in power.

He ended the call and stared at his reflection in the bourbon glass. Somewhere deep inside, the boy who once watched over Juliet from the cracked door of a foster home still existed.

But Jones Johnson, the senator, knew better.

That child would never have made it this far. Juliet's hands trembled as she opened the bank statement. Zero. The account she used for the shelter projects-the one her foundation had agreed to manage-was frozen.

No explanation.

No warning.

She stormed into Clarisse Downing's office the next morning, high heels echoing like war drums across the marble hallway. Clarisse looked up, unsurprised, a composed smile pinned beneath perfectly powdered cheeks.

"It's just procedural," Clarisse said, offering tea like poison. "Senator Johnson requested a routine audit. Nothing personal."

But it was personal.

Juliet knew this was Jones' way of yanking the leash. He hadn't even called.

By noon, she received another blow-Lionel, slick as ever, showed up at her event, kneeling before cameras with a diamond ring and a carefully crafted speech. Her refusal made headlines. So did her slap.

But the final strike came when Anderson invited her to a private gala-publicly. She wasn't foolish enough to believe it was an olive branch. It was a trap. A performance.

She sat in the dressing room, dress half-zipped, breath shallow.

Then Mario walked in, holding her old leather jacket.

"Are you still pretending you're part of their world?" he asked softly.

Juliet stared at her reflection.

Split into two distinct versions of herself. And one truth rising like thunder beneath her ribs.

This wasn't over.

It was just beginning.