Outlaw trash may be one of them.
But no man gets to use that to make a woman feel unclaimed by the blood she had no say in carrying.
I stand because sitting still no longer works.
Amelia stiffens at the movement.
That stops me faster than Sophie’s warning could.
I force my hands open.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” I say.
She gives me a look that is so tired it nearly guts me. “Men usually say that before they explain why hurting you wasn’t their fault.”
Sophie closes her eyes for half a second.
Derby turns and walks three steps away like he needs distance from the sentence.
Royal watches me.
The whole damn room watches me.
This is the problem with being president. Every reaction becomes law if you let it. If I rage, men rage. If I dismiss her, they dismiss her. If I treat her like a liar, she becomes one in their eyes before proof gets a chance to breathe.
And if she is my sister, then the first thing I give her can’t be another man’s temper.
I sit back down.
Slowly.
“Fair,” I say.
Amelia blinks.
“What?”
“That’s fair.”
She looks like she doesn’t know where to put that.
I don’t either.
Sophie’s mouth softens, and I know she’s proud of me. It should annoy me. It doesn’t.
The door opens again. This time, Whiskey comes in with rain on his shoulders and business in his eyes.
He’s one of the few men I trust with numbers, secrets, and bodies. Some men are good at making threats. Whiskey is good at finding the paper trail under them. Treasurer, father, sinner, and better at pretending he ain’t got a heart than most men ever get.
He takes in the room in one sweep.
Amelia.
Derby.
Sophie.
Royal.