by Parker Swift
One email was from Deirdre Rocker, inviting me for a meeting, a meeting I’d been unable to secure months earlier. Another email was from a fashion photographer asking if I had any interest in that side of the business, and there were half a dozen more like that one. Being introduced by Dylan Hale had clearly brought my name up to the top of some people’s lists, and I wasn’t sure yet how I felt about it. He’d warned me that things would change, that I was entering a different world, and he’d been right, but he’d been wrong about which part of being in his world would throw me for a loop. Being hounded by paparazzi didn’t scare me—Dylan made me feel safe, and I couldn’t imagine feeling any more than annoyed by that nuisance. But this, the way things looked to be falling into my lap, the way his name carried weight, the free rides being offered, this was the new world that I was afraid might change me. I wanted to build my life, not just glide through on unsolicited emails. If I was going to stick around, if I was going to move in with him—and I still hadn’t wrapped my head around that one—we were going to have to jump these hurdles.
I sighed audibly into the empty office—I needed to get home to Dylan, to the night we had planned, but I needed just a moment. I leaned back in my chair, closed my eyes, and thought about how right it had felt to wake up in his bed, his arms wrapped tightly around me. I could imagine the feel of those arms perfectly and suddenly wanted desperately to get back to them. I gathered my things into my bag, and I was just about to close my email when I heard the ping of a new message in my personal account.
The email had the subject line A Warning, and the sender was a series of numbers and letters in no discernable pattern. I would have deleted the email, assuming it was spam, if I hadn’t glimpsed the preview of the text within it: He’s not who you think he is. I opened the email and below the foreboding message was a grainy up-close photograph of Dylan and me in a dark room. I recognized the moment immediately from his house in the country, and my breathing hitched. My arms tied tightly above my head. Dylan’s face, in clear profile, kissing the side of my breast.
My heart was beating furiously. Whoever this was had caught an intimate moment—one of the most intimate moments—weeks ago and hadn’t shared it with the press. Yet. I scrolled farther down the image and in large bold font, three words were typed across Dylan’s naked back: LIAR, CRIMINAL, TRAITOR.
About the Author
Parker Swift grew up in Providence, Rhode Island, and then grew up again in New York, London, and Minneapolis and currently lives in Connecticut. She has spent most of her adult life examining romantic relationships in an academic lab as a professor of social psychology. Now, she’s exploring the romantic lives of her fictional characters in the pages of her books. When she’s not writing, she spends her time with her bearded nautical husband and being told not to sing along to pop music in the car by her two sons.
Learn more at:
Twitter @the_ParkerSwift
Facebook.com/ParkerSwiftAuthor
Instagram @Parker.Swift
Don’t miss the thrilling next installments of Dylan and Lydia’s story!
Parker Swift’s Royal Scandal series continues!
Royal Disaster
and
Royal Treatment
Available for pre-order now
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