Sweet Retribution (Rydeville High Elite #3)(97)
I lift a neat brow.
“I know the way your mind works, Abby, and I know what was in the works before I switched allegiances.” He holds my hands firmly in his. “Whatever you have planned, please be fucking careful.”
“You won’t stop us?” I whisper.
He shakes his head. “I’ve made grave mistakes, Abby. Mistakes that have cost me my family and you, but I’m done making bad decisions and choosing the wrong side.” He looks over his shoulder at Father. He’s sitting beside the other candidates looking like the cat that got the cream. Charlie looks back at me. “I trusted the wrong people and allowed my mind to be swayed.” His features harden. “I hope you make him pay.”
“What was that all about?” Shandra whispers when I take my seat on the edge of a row with her to my right.
“I think Charlie might have finally come to his senses,” I say as a dark shadow looms over me.
“Move,” Alessandra snaps, tossing her long dark hair over one shoulder while planting her hands on her curvy hips.
“Only if you ask nicely.” I grin up at her.
“I will yank you up by the hair and enjoy every second of it,” she retorts.
I flash her an even wider grin. “Yeah, I don’t think so. Your daddy told me what a dutiful daughter you are.” I stand, leaning into her ear. “How you spread your legs and your ass for him and numerous other men.” Her nostrils flare and her fists clench at her sides. “I’m guessing he wouldn’t be pleased if you made a scene at such an important event, but feel free to test my theory.”
I step out, and she deliberately shoulder checks me as she pushes her way into the row. She’s poured into a bodycon dress that is better suited to dancing than a formal elite event but judging by the way Trent is panting in heat, I’d say he had a hand in what she wore today.
I fix the collar of my white silk shirt, adjusting the strand of pearls around my neck so they are perfectly positioned. My hair is in an elegant chignon, matching my classic straight black skirt, and white silk blouse combo. I’m wearing heels but not skyscrapers because I don’t want to risk taking a tumble when I make my way up to the stage.
Adrenaline flows through my veins and a flurry of butterflies are idling in my chest as I sit back down, hoping the formalities kick off soon.
When everyone is seated, the current president calls for quiet and the ceremony begins. A screen lowers behind him, and a bullshit presentation lauding the legacy and achievements of the elite plays for ten minutes, while I fight boredom. When that ends, the president jumps right into his speech.
The man is clearly in ill health, leaning heavily on a walking stick and wiping his mouth with his handkerchief every time he coughs. Every second of his speech feels like hours, and a trickle of sweat rolls down the gap between my breasts. From my position, I can see Drew, Rick, and Kai sitting in the second row on the left. We tested our earpieces out first thing, and I know the guys are listening from outside. Xavier has successfully infiltrated the IT system, and he’s primed and ready to get this show on the road.
“Now to the business of the day,” the president says, spitting into the mic as he breaks out in another coughing fit. “The election of a new president to reside over the council and oversee the running of the elite nationwide. All candidates, please rise.”
The five men stand in the front row as a round of applause breaks out around the room.
When the clapping has stopped, the president continues explaining the process. “Each candidate’s name will be called out individually, and I will invite a show of support. Voting members will raise their left hand while simultaneously pressing the button on the digital keypad to register their vote.”
Drew previously explained how all members over the age of eighteen have automatic voting privileges. The raising of the hands is a nod to the old traditions, while the little digital pads on the arm of each member’s seat allows for fast computation of votes.
“When all the nominations have been called, and the votes tallied, the candidate with the majority votes will be announced as our next president. All the results will be displayed on the screen,” he adds, waving his hand behind him. “A minimum of fifty votes is required to be eligible. In the event no candidate receives the minimum entitlement, the voting process will be halted while the council discusses how to proceed.”
He waffles on for another few minutes before calling for absolute quiet.
And then it begins.
One by one, the candidates’ names are called, and I’m on the edge of my seat as I wait for the bastard’s name to be announced. The cage restraining the butterflies in my chest has broken apart, and those beautiful creatures are running amok inside me. I wipe my sweaty palms down the front of my skirt, while Shandra grips my arm in a silent show of support.
Father’s name is called out last, and at this stage, no other candidate has received the minimal entitlement. Father is preening as he stands, probably believing he’s won more than his expected number of votes.
“Get ready,” Drew whispers through the earpiece. I wet my dry lips and fold my hands in my lap to stop fidgeting.
“Those in support of Michael Hearst for president, please raise your hands and register your votes now,” the president says, and an eerie lull sweeps over the room.
Not a single person raises their hand, and Father’s brow puckers as he looks around the room.