Betrayal (Infidelity Book 1) - Aleatha Romig Page 0,39

resembled small thrones. When I was little it helped to perpetuate my princess theory. It was probably the table my grandfather had and his father before that. Despite the heritage, I hated that table almost as much as I loathed my bedroom. Each time throughout my childhood when I was caught or accused of wrongdoing, my correction began with a family conference at this table. There were three of us—three. Sitting at this giant-ass table was ridiculous. It was part of Alton’s power play, his demonstration of strength. When I was five, it probably worked. By the time I was old enough to understand overcompensation, I found it humorous.

I stopped walking and laughed. I wasn’t five nor was I seventeen. The Spencers weren’t family, and we weren’t discussing my correction. This was pure bullshit.

My forced laughter filled the room. “Are you all out of your minds?” I moved my outstretched hand toward each person. “What is this? I’m not sitting. I’m not doing anything. And if you want me to go back out to those guests—my guests, ha!… If you want me to go back out there and play the dutiful daughter then someone better answer some damn questions.”

“Alexandria—”

“Alex,” I corrected my mother.

“Alex,” Bryce offered. The years of our friendship rippled through the sound of his voice as he said my name. But that quickly disappeared when I looked at him and remembered the rest of our story, after our friendship.

Bryce had grown up well in the past four years. His shoulders were broader, his chin was defined, and his light blonde hair longer than I remembered. It wasn’t too long, but had a slight wave I’d never noticed when we were younger. He was a swimmer at the academy and had always kept it short. Over the past few years, his lean swimmer’s body had broadened. That wasn’t to say he was heavy. The weight looked good on him, or maybe it was the suit. He definitely looked the part of a Montague minion, all the way to his Italian loafers.

“Hi, Bryce.”

He took a step toward me. “I wish we had more time to explain.”

I shook my head. “Explain what?”

“We have a situation, something that you can help with. Something I’d—we’d—like you to do.”

My mother nodded while Suzanna and Alton shared an expression somewhere between pain and disgust.

I forced another laugh. “A situation? Does this have anything to do with the senator or perhaps the man you were speaking to?”

“No, not really,” Alton offered. “It has more to do with Bryce.”

“I don’t understand. How can I help? We haven’t spoken in four years.”

“No one needs to know that,” Bryce said.

The entire scenario didn’t make sense.

“Alexandria,” Mother began. “Do you follow the news?”

“The news?” I repeated incredulously.

Suzanna exhaled and leaned back against the edge of Alton’s desk, her arms crossed over her chest.

Finally, Alton sat at the table and began to fill in the blanks. As he spoke, I stared at Bryce and tried to judge if any of what Alton was saying were true. By both Mother’s and Suzanna’s expressions, I believed every word. With each sentence, my desire to stand diminished, and my legs grew weaker. Eventually, I collapsed into a chair at the table I despised. By the time Alton was done, all five of us were seated: Alton, Mother, and I in our assigned spots with Suzanna next to Mother and Bryce at the other end.

No matter the severity of the shitstorm blowing around us, Montague Manor had its hierarchy and it didn’t matter that Adelaide and I were the only true Montagues, males still perched like proud peacocks at the top. This place was a prison—an eighteenth-century torture chamber.

I needed to call Chelsea as soon as I could. If anyone could break me out, it was she.

Alton explained that an undergraduate student, a woman, who attended Northwestern, claimed that she and Bryce had been in a relationship last semester. Booth was in Chicago, near Northwestern.

She claimed that Bryce assaulted her, physically and sexually. She went to the police, and they took pictures of her bruises. The rape kit showed sexual activity, but the only DNA was a hair, and Bryce didn’t deny consensual sex. He did deny harming her. Montague attorneys have gotten the unfounded and unsubstantiated charges dropped, and a gag order in place. Unfortunately, about a week ago, someone leaked the story in an on-campus publication at Northwestern, during an early freshman orientation. The author of the article cited the incident as an