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Hans accepts his handshake. “Ah, hello, Ambassador.”
My dad puts his arm around my shoulder and scoots me forward. “This is my daughter, Willow. Willow, this is Hans Müller, the leader of the Labor Party.”
Hans bows his head in greeting, but he doesn’t smile. In fact, I don’t think the guy knows how. He has a hardened look on his face, and the five o’clock shadow that stubbles his jawline matches his tawny hair flecked with gray.
This guy isn’t as put together as the other dignitaries in the room. His suit doesn’t look very expensive, and it fits loosely on his tall frame. He could be thirty or fifty-five; it’s hard to say, but he gives off the vibe of a jaded war veteran.
“Labor Party, huh?” I say. “So, you’re in here drinking free booze while your followers protest out front?”
My father clenches his jaw. “Willow—”
Hans raises a hand to cut my father off. “It’s alright. It’s a fair question. The leaders of this country need to be held accountable for their actions.” He turns his rough gaze onto me. “What is it the Americans say? Oh, yes. Keep your enemies close. That’s why I’m here.”
His tone sends a shudder crawling up my spine.
“And you won’t see a drink in my hand tonight.” Hans flicks his gaze over toward the Kurochkins. “One must stay alert in a den of vipers.”
I follow his gaze, and at the entrance of the ballroom, the Kurochkins are lined up, shaking hands and greeting the newcomers. As I stare at Aleksandr, I rake my lip between my teeth.
“Hans here is quite popular in Andarusia,” my dad interjects, breaking the tense silence. “You’ll see his speeches on TV often.”
The president must realize how much Hans hates his guts. He doesn’t try to hide it. So why would Grigor Kurochkin invite him to an event like this?
Unless the Kurochkins are also keeping their enemies close.
“Have a good night, Ambassador.” Hans nods to me. “Enjoy the party, Willow.”
My dad says hello to a few more familiar faces before we reach our table, and most of the seats are filled by older white men in tuxedos. One of them cracks a crude joke, which sends the others roaring in laughter.
“Gentlemen, it’s great to see you.” My father makes his way around the table to shake hands. “Everyone, this is my daughter, Willow.”
“Oops, we better behave now,” one of the men says in a thick Irish accent. “Ladies are present.”
My father comes around to pull my chair out for me, and I take a seat. The table setting is the epitome of elegance, with more silverware than I know what to do with, and an extravagant floral arrangement towers over us in the middle.
I glance around at the place cards—the ambassador from Canada, from Australia, Great Britain, Ireland, South Africa, and a couple of other nations. Essentially, a boy’s club of the English-speaking world.
And it seems none of them have family here in Andaruisa, or if they do, they left them behind tonight.
“So, Miss Willow,” the Canadian ambassador says, “how old are you?”
“Seventeen.”
“Almost an adult. David, you won’t be able to scare the boys off much longer. Such a pretty face.”
Great, the ick factor just jumped to an eleven out of ten.
“You must be thinking about university now,” the British ambassador says. “What are your plans to study?”
“She’s got her sights set on my alma mater,” my dad interjects. “She’s had Harvard gear hanging in her room since the age of four.”
“Oh, how marvelous. Are you planning on following your father’s footsteps and going into foreign relations?”
“No, definitely not,” I reply. “I couldn’t do that to my future family.”
Not that I see myself having kids anytime soon, but I never understood how my father could give up his family for this line of work. I don’t want to continue the cycle of absentee parenting.
“Ah, it’s just as well,” the Irish ambassador says. “It’s a lonely life we lead, eh, lads?”
