Queen of ruin, p.1
Queen of Ruin, page 1
Queen of Ruin
Kingmaker Trilogy
Book 2
Paula Dombrowiak
By: Paula Dombrowiak
Copyright © 2024 Paula Dombrowiak
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All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in any retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the above copyright owner of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
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Cover Image: Stock Photo
Cover Design: Lori Jackson www.lorijacksondesign.com
Editor: Hart to Heart Edits
Proofreader: Katy Nielsen
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www.pauladombrowiak.com
Contents
Prologue
1. Even I’m Not That Good
Evangeline
2. Revisionist History
Darren
3. The Things I’ve Done
Evangeline
4. Fucking Hemingway
Darren
5. It’s A Long List
Evangeline
6. Don’t Be Dramatic
Darren
7. The Crux
Evangeline
8. Love Affair With Things That Can Never Be
Darren
9. The Declaration of Independence
Darren
10. Confession
Evangeline
11. Envelopes Are Not My Friend
Darren
12. Everything In Due Time
Darren
13. I’m No Lady
Evangeline
14. Being a Liberal Would Have Been The Worst
Darren
15. What Does Emerson Have To Do With Politics?
FOUR YEARS EARLIER
16. Respectable Gentlemen
Darren
17. Where’s The Turkey?
Evangeline
18. This Isn’t A Movie
Evangeline
19. Tread Carefully
Darren
20. Because He Loved You
Evangeline
21. Gregory Allen Walker
Darren
22. You Can’t Please Everyone
Evangeline
23. Ice On The Road
Darren
24. About The Agreement
Evangeline
25. The Bat Cave
Evangeline
26. Very Different View
Darren
27. I’m A Liability
Evangeline
28. Superstitions
Darren
29. Of All The Ways To Lose Someone
Evangeline
30. Punch To The Gut
Darren
31. His Queen Of Ruin
Evangeline
State of Union Excerpt
Darren
Also by Paula Dombrowiak
About the Author
Acknowledgments
For those who think history is sexy.
Prologue
FOUR YEARS EARLIER
Evangeline
“What can I get you?” I ask from behind the counter, simultaneously grabbing a muffin and placing it on a plate while I wait for the customer to answer.
Rubbing my hands on my apron, I barely look up to register who I’m speaking with, and when I do, I notice an older man with dark, wavy hair, and eyes a color I can’t discern. He’s wearing a suit, not something I see often in here. A line starts to form behind him, and I remember the other drinks I need to get started on.
Pressing the grounds, I flip on the espresso machine while grabbing a cup for another drink.
“Just a black coffee.” The man shrugs.
“Taking it easy on me,” I jest, raising my eyebrows, because otherwise why would he have been taking his time to order if it was just going to be a black coffee?
“You look busy,” he observes, handing me his card.
“Tap it here.” I point to the card reader.
He laughs, embarrassed, taking the card back and touching it to the reader. “I can never get used to these things.”
“It’s okay, there are a lot of things I can’t seem to get a handle on either,” I mention before starting on the backlog of drinks. I grab a paper cup, pour black coffee into it for him, snap on the top, and hand it to him at the end of the counter.
“Thanks.” He grabs hold of it and puts a twenty-dollar bill in the tip jar which I’m not shy about accepting as I nod appreciatively at him.
I sort through the rest of the drinks and glance at my open book on the counter, trying to get in a few extra minutes of studying before I have to leave for class.
“Where’s Natalie?” my manager, Michelle, asks.
“I don’t know.” I’m done covering for Natalie because there are only so many excuses I can make, and if she thinks I’m sharing the tips with her, she’s crazy.
Michelle huffs and then picks up taking orders at the register while I finish the rest of the drinks. The morning rush dissipates just in time for me to leave. Checking the clock, I realize I only have fifteen minutes to get to class. I rush out the door, juggling my drink, when I smack right into someone, coffee spilling over my books as they crash to the pavement.
“Jesus, I’m sorry.” The man kneels to help me with my things and I notice his shiny dress shoes, and the hem of neatly pressed trousers splattered with coffee.
“No, it’s my fault.” I look up at him to make sure the rest of his expensive-looking suit isn’t tarnished. I push a few papers into my bag and shake my hair out of my face.
We both stand, and I notice he’s holding my book, looking at it with an interesting expression. “Collective works of Ralph Waldo Emerson,” he observes.
I realize he’s the man who just ordered a black coffee. Taking the book from him, I toss my now empty cup of coffee in the nearby trash.
“Yeah,” I laugh. “It’s so boring.”
“You think Emerson is boring?” He sounds appalled.
“I mean, half the time I have no idea what he’s trying to say.” I stuff the book back in my bag and hoist it over my shoulder.
“Emerson is a fascinating historical figure! I mean, he was compared to Nietzsche, and supported the Transcendental movement with the likes of Walt Whitman. Boring, no, no, no. You cannot think he’s boring,” he exclaims, and I now realize his eyes are a complicated color, and they light up while he talks about Emerson, trying to convince me to like the man, not just his poetry.
“Are you a professor?” It would be just like me to put my foot in my mouth and end up having him as a teacher next semester. He looks to be the right age, maybe somewhere in his mid to late forties.
“No,” he laughs. “I’m giving a lecture to the student senate, and hopefully they don’t mind if I throw in a little Emerson.”
“What does Emerson have to do with politics?”
“Everything,” he declares, and his smile is so inviting, so genuine, that I’m eager to understand more.
“I wish I had time to ask you to explain that to me, since I’m about to take a test on Emerson, but I don’t have time,” I apologize.
He holds his coffee out to me. “I didn’t drink any. I was waiting for it to cool off.”
“I don’t take drinks from strangers.” I lift an eyebrow. “Even handsome ones,” I add.
“Oh, um,” he scratches his head and I’m immediately embarrassed for misreading his kindness. “I wasn’t trying to…. Old habit of charming voters,” he stumbles over his words.
He’s definitely charming, even if he doesn’t mean to be. “A politician huh?”
“Afraid so.” He looks around the small courtyard that connects the student dorms to the cafeteria, and then points to a shady spot under a tree where a man who looks completely out of place is standing with a watchful eye. “Security,” he explains, “so don’t try anything or he’ll tackle you.”
I laugh, holding a hand to my face. “I’m sorry, I’m so late for class. Good luck with your lecture.”
I race off toward the English building. Once I’m across the street, I turn to see if he’s still there, but he’s walking in the opposite direction with the security detail at his side.
When I get to the classroom, I pull on the door, but it doesn’t budge - locked. Looking through the small window I can see everyone in their seats, pencils up, and heads down.
“Shit!”
I raise my hand to knock on the door, but hesitate, because it will get the attention of the whole class. Continuing to stare through the window, Professor Abbott happens to look up and see me. When he gets ‘the look’, I can already tell he’s not going to let me in.
He’s a tall man with blond hair and glasses too small for his face.
“You’re late,” he announces, peering at me over his spectacles.
“I know, I was leaving work and ran into someone…”
“Stopping to talk to your friends is no excuse for being late.”
“No, I literally ran into someone on the street, my coffee went all over my book and papers,” I explain, but all he does is shake his head and I don’t know if he believes me or not.
“Did you know today was the test?” he asks.
“Yes, but…”
“Then you should have left work earlier to
“Natalie never showed up. I had to finish my shift.” I pull out my book. “Look at my book, if you don’t believe me.” I hold it out for him, the pages discolored and wrinkled with coffee stains.
“I’m sorry, Ms. Bowen,” he says, pushing his glasses back up his nose. “The rules are you have to be in your seat when class begins. I can’t give you a pass when everyone else was here on time.”
Shoving the book back in my bag I let out a defeated breath.
“Is there any way I can make it up?” I plead.
“I don’t give makeup tests unless you’re sick,” he continues, “and you look very healthy to me.” Whether he means to or not, the way his eyes slide over my body makes me uncomfortable.
“What will an incomplete on the test do to my grade?” I inquire, because I need to keep my grade point average for my scholarship money to come through.
“You can see me after class and I can look up your grades,” he offers, “but if my recollection is accurate, you don’t have a stellar grade to begin with.”
Maybe if Professor Abbott wasn’t such a boring teacher I’d be doing better. Between the cafe in the morning and waitressing at night, I barely have time to study.
As soon as the door shuts behind him, I slump against the hallway wall and slide down until my butt hits the rough carpet. Why does everything have to be so hard for me? Tears prick at the back of my eyes, and I am defenseless against them.
Pulling my knees up, I rested my forehead against them.
I wanted to be Melinda Carleton, the investigative journalist who won a Pulitzer for her Russian spy piece, but all of that felt like grasping at stars – so far away that I’d never be able to reach. I began to feel resentful of girls like Natalie who miss work, and even if she gets fired, it’s no real consequence, because it was just extra money for her. For me, it would determine whether I had a place to live next semester, or whether I could afford my meal plan.
Lifting my head, I wipe the tears away, not sure if that made me feel better or not. I’ve learned to give myself some grace for the occasional emotional breakdown. When my vision comes back into focus, I see a flyer taped to the wall - Student Government Welcomes Distinguished Speaker Senator Kerry Walker (R) Virginia.
A senator? The man with a nice smile and a slight southern accent was Senator Kerry Walker.
What does Emerson have to do with politics?
Everything.
There is so much potential in the word everything.
1
Even I’m Not That Good
Evangeline
“Jesus Christ, Evangeline!” Darren raises his voice, holding one of the photos in his hand. “Did you fuck him?” he asks harshly. “Did you fuck my father?” he demands, and I blink as if his words are arrows that have hit their target.
“No!”
“Trips out of town, speaking events – now I know why he didn’t want my mother to go with him,” Darren accuses absently as if he didn’t hear me.
“I never saw him again!” I yell to stop him from talking, but that’s not the whole truth. “Not after that night.” That gets Darren’s attention.
“We were talking about Emerson, and Langley…”
“Langley?” Darren’s eyes go wide.
“Yes, he was with your father. He wanted to know about my demographic and your father. He was so gracious, and invited me to dinner with his staff. I didn’t know the pictures were taken, but nothing happened,” I’m out of breath, trying to get it all out at once.
“Bullshit!” Darren roars, scattering the photos so they fly off the desk as if a gust of wind tore through the office.
“He was a senator! They don’t invite voters to fucking dinner, Evangeline.”
“Your father was interested in what I had to say – about Emerson, about me,” I rattle off excuses, but I can feel my chest cave, wondering if my memory of that evening is as reliable as I think. Was I so desperate for someone to pay attention to what I had to say that I didn’t see—?
“I’m sure he wanted you there to talk about your demographic.” He looks across the desk at me and shakes his head. It makes me feel small and naïve. Maybe I was back then, but now…
“Is it so hard for you to believe that someone would be interested in what I had to say? That someone would be interested in my intellect instead of my body?” I ask, offended, but even I’m beginning to wonder now.
Darren rubs the back of his neck, saying nothing.
“You’re an asshole.”
“I’m an asshole? You manipulated your way into my life…”
I approach the desk and place my fingers on the dark wood. “You blew up my life so I’d have no choice but to marry you!” I argue, pointing a finger at him as he sits behind the desk, dark eyes staring at me. “You know what’s really fucked up, Darren?” He furrows his brows at me. “If you would have just asked me to marry you instead of getting me fired, I probably would have said yes.”
He stands, and the chair bangs into the wall, jarring me. There’s a flicker of regret before he swipes a hand over his face as if to gain composure.
“I’m an asshole, I admit that.” He almost sounds remorseful. “I fucked you over so I could get what I wanted, but I never once lied to you.” He smacks a pen from the desk and turns away from me.
I stand there like a child who’s just been scolded, my cheeks hot, and my heart beating hard against my ribs. Darren may have been underhanded about our union, but I went into it with secrets that I somehow thought would stay buried. How stupid a notion that was.
“And Langley?” His eyes are wide. “You could have told me. You could have warned me you knew him before,” Darren fumes.
“Do you want a list of all my clients?” I challenge.
“He’s different and you know it!” His voice fills the room. “Did you fuck him, too?” he demands, and my belly drops.
“He didn’t get the chance,” I admit, and think back to that night as Darren waits for me to continue. “Our date was cut short because of the news…”
“About my parents?” he asks, but he already knows the answer.
He collapses into the chair as if his legs can’t hold him up any longer. “I never liked Langley, but God…” He can’t finish the sentence after putting the pieces together. Which I’m glad because right now I don’t think I could explain this tangled web.
“I’m sure he’s the one that had the photos,” I accuse. “It makes sense.”
“Jesus!” He rubs the back of his neck and stands up again. “If you had told me, I could have done something.”
I hug myself as if to keep my insides from spilling out. Heavy shame shivers down my spine. “I… I couldn’t,” I say honestly.
“What were you doing at that bar?” he demands. “Did you follow me?”
“No!” I exclaim. “I didn’t know you were going to be there. I couldn’t go home that night, not after finding out about your father. I didn’t want to be alone,” I admit.
“You could have just left me in that alley.” He looks at me with a weary expression.
“I wanted to see…” I whisper, leaving the rest of the sentence hanging, but he grasps my meaning.
“Well, now you know,” he says, raising his arms. “I’m nothing like him.”
“That’s not true.”
He doesn’t know how very much like his father he is.
“Did you know who I was? In the bar?” he asks, eyes searching mine.
I shake my head no, but that’s not true. There was a familiarity when he quoted Emerson. It felt like fate.
I carried a flame for a man who burned bright because he was the only thing bright to hold onto. But he was just a man. He wasn’t perfect like I’d made him out to be. He was a husband, a father, a son, and a politician. How could I expect so much from one person I barely knew?
