6.0 #3
Margot leaned closer as Bryan turned to greet another cluster of guests. "Loosen up," she whispered, nails grazing my wrist. "Smile. Drink champagne if you have to. Just don't look like you'd rather be anywhere else."
The thing was, I would. Anywhere else.
I excused myself, weaving through the crowd until the noise blurred into one long hum. At the bar, I asked for sparkling water, ignoring the way the bartender's eyes flicked like he knew I needed something stronger.
The room only got louder as the night bled on.
I'd done my rounds-shook the hands, nodded at the right jokes, let Margot smile for both of us when I couldn't bring myself to fake it anymore.
Still, it felt like I was moving underwater.
Every conversation sounded the same. Every face blurred into the next.
"Senator Whitmore," a man in a gray suit said, voice oily, hand outstretched.
He introduced himself as a donor out of Pittsburgh, rattled off his company like I hadn't seen his checks come through my office for the last year.
I smiled, thanked him for his generosity, promised to "circle back." Empty words for an empty exchange.
Margot slipped in and charmed him out of my earshot, laughing at something he said that wasn't funny. That was her talent-making people feel clever when they weren't.
I used the opening to drift, weaving through clusters of guests.
Everywhere I turned, people were talking about Bryan like he was already sworn in.
President O'Connell. President O'Connell and his young running mate.
Brooks Whitmore, heir apparent. They said it like prophecy, like my whole future was already written.
I caught my reflection in one of the gold-framed mirrors along the wall. The suit fit perfect, the tie sat neat, the shoulders squared just right. But the eyes staring back were flat. Tired. A man dressed for a role he hadn't auditioned for.
"Brooks," Bryan's voice boomed across the floor again. He was never subtle. He had a talent for catching the room, twisting it toward him. This time, he pulled me into a small circle of colleagues-governors, party chairs, men who'd been smiling in pictures with my father since before I could shave.
"Your boy here," Bryan said, gripping my shoulder like he owned it, "he's the reason I'm sleeping good at night. With a man like him on the ticket, we can walk into Pennsylvania, into Ohio, into the whole damn country and win it."
Laughter, nods, back slaps. I forced a thin smile, but the weight of Bryan's hand made my skin itch.
"You know what I told your father?" Bryan went on, voice dropping just enough for only us to hear. "The Whitmore legacy is good for the country. But you? You're good for me. Don't forget that difference."
I stiffened, but kept my eyes forward, the same way I had since I was a kid learning not to react in church pews while my father whispered corrections into my ear.
Margot slid to my side again, smile warm, hand ghosting against the back of my neck like she thought I needed soothing. To everyone else, we must've looked like the picture of unity. Husband and wife. Partners.
She leaned in, lips brushing close enough for me to feel her breath. "Don't let him rattle you."
I didn't answer. She was right, though. Bryan rattled me, not because of what he said, but because of how easily he said it. Like he could read the cracks already showing and enjoyed pressing on them.
The music shifted, strings giving way to something livelier.
The clink of glassware and the murmur of careful laughter filled the room, the kind of background noise I'd grown up in.
These parties were all the same-men in dark suits talking too loudly, women in gowns smiling too tightly, every word rehearsed, every handshake a transaction.
I'd been working the perimeter, shaking hands with donors who already knew my name before I opened my mouth, when I caught Bryan's voice cutting through the buzz.
"Kian!"
I glanced over. Bryan stood near one of the floor-to-ceiling windows, framed by the skyline, arms wide as if he were welcoming home a prodigal son.
They hugged like family. Which, apparently, they were.
"Unc," the younger man said, grin sharp, posture unbothered.
Kian. That was the name Bryan used.
I studied him from a distance-street confidence written into his stance, the kind of calm that came from surviving places you couldn't charm your way out of. He wasn't dressed for politics, but he wasn't out of place either. He had presence. The kind people noticed whether they wanted to or not.
Bryan turned then, his eyes landing on the woman at Kian's side.
And just like that, the air shifted.
Gold caught the light first-the curve of a dress, the sheen of fabric molded to skin I knew too well. Then her face, turned toward Bryan, polite, poised. My chest tightened before my brain even caught up.
Amira.
She hadn't seen me yet. Her focus was on Bryan, her smile small, careful. Kian's hand pressed against her waist like a claim.
Bryan's voice carried, warm and practiced. "And who's this?"
"This Amira," Kian said easily, squeezing her side. "She's with me."
The words landed heavy, like they were meant to. Like a line drawn.
Bryan offered his hand, his smile softening. "Welcome, welcome. Kian doesn't bring just anyone around here."
She shook his hand, her posture steady, but I could read the flicker in her eyes. I'd spent too many nights learning her tells not to.
They exchanged a few words-her complimenting the place, Bryan laughing about politics being all showmanship-and I stood rooted, heat pressing behind my ribs, whiskey still lingering in my blood from earlier.
"Big announcements, big futures," Bryan said, clapping his nephew on the shoulder. His gaze swept the room, then lifted, landing on me.
"Let me introduce you to someone important," he called, his voice carrying over the crowd. His hand lifted, gesturing me forward.
"Brooks!"
The name cracked the air. Dozens of eyes followed.
I straightened out of reflex, shoulders squared, jaw set. But when I moved, when I finally stepped closer, all I could see was her.
Amira.
Her head turned, and then her eyes found mine.
Four years collapsed in an instant. Her gaze was steady, but I felt the hit of it like a blow. She was different-stronger, sharper-but still her. The woman who had wrecked me, and the woman I'd never managed to forget.
And now she was here. On Kian's arm. In Bryan's orbit.
My chest went tight, the room spinning quieter around the edges. All the politics, all the power plays, all the staged smiles-none of it mattered when her eyes locked on mine.