BOUND BY HATRED | TOM KAULITZ

CHAPTER FOURTEEN | TOM KAULITZ |

TOM KAULITZ

Tyra comes down the staircase, gingerly and clinging to the railing, twenty minutes late but, frankly, looking stunning. Marta pulled Tyra's hair up into a slightly retro updo that plays up that classic bombshell look.

Her eyes are lined with kohl, which highlights their exotic shape and makes them look almost as silvery as the dress.

I like the fact that Tyra can barely walk in the stilettos. It gives her a vulnerable air and makes her cling to my arm for the walk to the car.
She's quieter than usual. I don't know if she's annoyed about me stealing her clothes, or if she's nervous about the night ahead of us.

I feel calm and more focused than I've been in weeks. Just as my father predicted, the Italians are throwing their full support behind me now that Tyra and I are officially married. La Spata is sunk, and I've already dug up some fantastic dirt on Kelly Hopkins from her college years, when she was neck-deep in a cheating ring, selling ready-made thesis papers to wealthier and lazier students.

Poor little scholarship student, forced to compromise her morals to get her degree.
That's what you always find in the end—no matter how pure people pretend to be, when the screw gets tight, there's always some place they crack.

That's going to shoot an arrow right through her pretensions of moral superiority. Which leaves the field clear for one candidate alone: me.
The election is only a week away. Almost nothing can fuck this up for me now.

As long as I can keep my wife in line.

I see her sitting across from me in the back of the town car. She looks calm enough, watching the buildings stream by out the window. But she doesn't fool me. I know how unruly she is. I might have slipped a bridle over her head for the moment, but she's going to try to buck me off again the moment she gets the chance.

The crucial thing is to keep her in line during this party. After that, she can mutiny as much as she likes. Several German business owners, CEOs, investors, and union reps will be here tonight. They need to see my wife at my side: obedient. Supportive.

We drive to the Fulton Market District, which used to be full of meat-packing plants and warehouses and has now gentrified into hotels, bars, restaurants, and trendy tech companies. The fundraiser is at Morgan's on Fulton, in the penthouse at the very top of the building.
We make our way toward the elevator through the art gallery on the main floor. It's stuffed floor-to-ceiling with paintings of various styles, in varying levels of skill.

Tyra pauses by one particularly hideous modern piece in shades of peach, taupe, and tan.

"Oh, look," she says. "Now I know what to get your mother for Christmas."

"I suppose you prefer that," I say, nodding toward a dark and moody oil painting of Cronus devouring his children.

"Oh yes," Tyra says, nodding somberly. "Family portrait. That's Papa when we leave the cupboards open or forget to turn off the lights."

I give a little snort, and Tyra looks startled, like she's never heard me laugh before. She probably hasn't.

As we reach the elevator at last, somebody calls, "Hold the door!" I put my arm out to stop it from closing.