6.0 #2
"Senator," Jenna's voice came from the doorway, tablet in hand, hair slick and perfect as always. "Car will be downstairs at six. Bryan's team wants a joint arrival."
I nodded once. "Fine."
Margot breezed in behind her, silk robe gone, replaced by a dress the color of champagne. She was all blonde waves and long legs, the kind of beauty people called effortless when really it took hours. Blue eyes sharp enough to cut, lips glossed like a mirror.
"God, you look handsome," she said, fingertips grazing the lapel of my jacket like she owned it. "Doesn't he look handsome?"
Neither stylist answered, which told me everything.
She smirked anyway, stepping closer, too close. Her perfume wrapped around me-floral, expensive, suffocating. She straightened my tie even though it didn't need it, her nails grazing the line of my throat.
"You ready for tonight?" she asked, voice low enough that only I could hear.
"Does it matter?" I muttered.
Her smile didn't falter. If anything, it sharpened. "It matters to me."
I caught her wrist before she could trace her hand any lower. For a second, our eyes locked-hers bright, expectant, mine flat.
The stylists busied themselves with their tools, pretending not to notice. Jenna cleared her throat from the doorway, already moving on to the next item on her list.
"Five o'clock call with Bryan's communications lead," she said. "We'll keep it brief."
"Fine," I said again, releasing Margot's wrist. She lingered, tilting her head like she wanted to read the part of me I never let her touch.
"Smile tonight," she whispered. "You're about to make history. At least try to look like you want it."
Then she pressed a kiss to my cheek, soft and practiced, just enough to leave a mark she knew the powder would cover.
When she finally drifted out, the room felt bigger again. Quieter.
I looked down at the glass in my hand, water already warm.
For one second, I wished it were whiskey.
Then I set it aside and let them finish dressing me for a life I wasn't sure I wanted.
I buttoned the jacket, rolled my shoulders, and stared at the man in the mirror. The lapel fit like armor. The eyes looked tired enough to betray me.
A knock on the door. Monte stepped in, cufflinks glinting, expression clipped and neutral. "Motorcade's downstairs, sir. Fifteen minutes."
"Alright," I said, voice steady even if everything under it wasn't.
He gave a short nod and stepped back, leaving me alone again.
I slid my watch into place, adjusted the cuff. The weight of it all pressed down-the cameras waiting, Bryan's people waiting, my father somewhere out there waiting for me to play the role he'd built for me.
For a long second, I let my eyes close. Drew a breath in. Held it.
When I opened them again, the mask was already there.
Vice President Whitmore. Or at least the image of him.
I picked up the cufflinks case, pocketed it, and walked out.
The elevator ride down was silent, just the low hum of machinery and my own reflection in the mirrored walls. By the time the doors slid open, the lobby was already staged-staff lined up, cameras flashing discreetly from corners, security moving like shadows.
Monte waited by the car, door open, posture sharp as ever. "Evening, sir."
I gave him a nod and slid into the backseat. The leather was cold, the kind that clung to your suit until it warmed. A bottle of water rested in the console, untouched.
The convoy pulled forward, headlights cutting through the Philly night. Streets blurred past-rowhouses giving way to office towers, the city trying hard to look like it belonged in the same breath as New York or D.C. People on the sidewalks paused, phones lifted, flashes sparking as we rolled by.
I leaned my head back against the seat. The city never really slept, but tonight it felt like it was holding its breath, waiting for a show.
"Crowd's already gathering outside the venue," Monte said from the front. "Press lines are long. Bryan's people have the arrivals timed down to the minute."
"Of course they do," I muttered.
Monte glanced back once, then faced forward again. He knew better than to push.
I turned toward the window, watched the skyline shimmer on the river. For all the noise waiting ahead, the car was too damn quiet. My chest felt tight, like the suit had been stitched on instead of tailored.
The motorcade slowed, lights flashing off glass. The venue loomed ahead-lit from the ground up, banners draped across its front, red carpet rolled out under the glow of cameras.
Monte's voice came again, steady as ever. "We're here."
I straightened my jacket, smoothed the line of my tie, and let the mask settle fully into place.
Time to perform.
The second Monte opened the door, the noise hit. Flashes strobed like lightning, cameras clicking in rapid-fire bursts, reporters shouting questions I couldn't hear over the crush of it all.
The titles were already bleeding together-senator, vice president, Whitmore. None of it sounded like my name.
I stepped out slowly, one polished shoe at a time, letting the cameras have what they wanted. The air was sharp with early summer heat and the metallic tang of equipment-cords, lights, microphones stretched across the entrance like vines. A velvet rope kept the crowd back, but barely.
Monte moved ahead, cutting a clean path. I buttoned my jacket, shoulders squaring, expression smooth. The mask slid on easy after all these years.
"Brooks!" A voice sharper than the rest. I turned my head just enough, eyes cutting toward the cluster. That was all they needed-half a second of contact, a hint of acknowledgment, and the flashes exploded.
"Senator!" another voice barked. "Any comment on Bryan O'Connell's announcement?"
I didn't answer. Didn't flinch. Just kept moving.
The second car in the motorcade pulled up behind mine, and the noise pitched higher.
Margot stepped out like she'd been born for it-platinum hair catching the light, her gown a deep emerald that clung to her frame and whispered wealth with every step.
Diamond drops swung at her ears, deliberate, controlled.
She smiled wide enough for both of us, hands lifting in practiced waves.
"Margot! Over here!"
"Look this way!"
She gave them angles-chin tilted, lashes lowered, that coy grin that played well in print. She let the cameras love her, and in return they made her glow.
When she reached me, she slid her hand through my arm without asking. Perfume wrapped around me, sharp and floral, expensive enough to choke.
"Smile, darling," she murmured through her teeth, lips still curved for the cameras.
I did. Just enough to keep the wolves fed.
Together, we walked the carpet, pausing in places Bryan's team had already mapped out. Margot leaned into me, head tilted against my shoulder for one shot, hand pressed to my chest for another. Her laugh was practiced-light, adoring. My smile never touched my eyes.
By the time the doors opened, my jaw ached from keeping it steady.
Inside, the noise dulled. The air cooled.
Crystal chandeliers glowed overhead, light bouncing off marble floors and mirrored walls.
Staff in black suits glided through the crowd with trays of champagne.
The chatter was warm, reverent, the kind that belonged to a room full of people who thought history was theirs for the taking.
"Senator Whitmore, Mrs. Whitmore!" one of the reporters shouted. "How does it feel knowing you're about to make history tonight?"
I let Margot answer. She was better at spinning.
"It feels right," she said, smile dazzling, voice warm. "Brooks has worked tirelessly for this moment, and we couldn't be prouder to stand with Bryan O'Connell's campaign. Tonight is about the future of this country."
The flashes came harder. I gave the cameras a small nod, my hand tightening around the glass of water I hadn't realized I was still holding.
Inside, the air was heavy with perfume, cologne, the faint metallic scent of money. Waiters glided past with trays of champagne and hors d'oeuvres I couldn't name. A string quartet played in the corner, drowned out by the buzz of voices.
Bryan found me before I found him.
"Brooks!" His voice carried, the kind that always landed first in a room. He cut through the crowd with ease, silver hair combed sharp, navy suit pressed like it had been ironed onto him. His wife trailed behind him, pearls shining against her collarbone, her smile fixed like mine.
He clasped my shoulder with both hands, pulling me in close enough that the cameras saw intimacy and not ownership. "My man," he said, grinning wide. "Doesn't he look like a president already?"
The crowd laughed politely. I forced the corners of my mouth to move.
"Tonight's about you, Bryan," I said evenly.
He shook his head, still grinning. "Tonight's about us, son. The beginning of something bigger than both of us."
Son.
My jaw ticked, but I swallowed it. He didn't notice. Or maybe he did and didn't care.
We moved off to the side, just enough privacy for him to drop the voice meant for the crowd. "I spoke with your father earlier. He tells me you've been... restless."
I kept my expression flat. "He always has something to say."
Bryan chuckled, patting my back like I was twelve again. "You've got fire, I like that. Just keep it pointed at the right enemies. You and I-this is history in the making. You know what your name does for this ticket. You know what your face does for this party."
The words lodged under my skin. My name. My face. Never me.
Still, I nodded. "I'm here, aren't I?"
He gave me another long squeeze, grin stretching wider. "That's all that matters."
It wasn't, but I didn't waste the breath saying so.
Margot appeared then, perfect timing like always, sliding her arm through mine. She smiled up at Bryan, all charm. "Don't work him too hard before the cameras. I need him upright next to me."
Bryan laughed, deep and booming. "You married a good one, Brooks."
I didn't answer. I couldn't.