8.0
The morning after felt like a punishment.
My head throbbed, temples pulsing in rhythm with the faint hum of the city outside.
Light bled through the curtains I hadn't bothered to close last night, stabbing at my eyes with every glance.
My suit jacket was crumpled in the corner, shirt untucked, tie still hanging loose around my neck like a noose I'd been too drunk to bother pulling off.
I sat there on the edge of the bed, hunched forward, elbows braced to my knees. The glass on the nightstand caught the light, clear and half-full, condensation slipping slow. Not water. Whiskey. The only thing that had made sense last night and the only thing I reached for now.
The burn in my throat was familiar. Too familiar.
I'd spent years running from this part of myself-the part that wanted the numb before the day even started. Politics kept me sharp, measured, controlled. But one look at her last night and the whole fa?ade cracked.
Amira.
Even just thinking the name made my jaw clench.
Four years gone, and she still had the power to knock the air out of me with one look.
She hadn't spoken. She hadn't needed to.
Just standing there-gold dress hugging her frame, chin lifted like she knew damn well she didn't belong in Bryan's world and didn't care-she managed to unravel me.
I took another drink.
The party had been a blur after that. Cameras flashing, Bryan slapping my shoulder, Margot at my arm like she was born glued there.
I'd smiled where I was supposed to, nodded at the right places, but I'd been gone the whole time.
My body had been in that ballroom, but my head?
My head was stuck in Philly four years ago, replaying a girl's laugh in a nightclub, her hand in mine, her eyes cutting through every lie I told myself about who I was.
The press would write their stories this morning. They'd talk about Bryan's ticket, about momentum, about history in the making. None of them would say a word about the senator who went home drunk and couldn't get his ex out of his head.
I dragged a hand down my face, rough stubble scraping against my palm. The mirror across the room reflected back a man I barely recognized-bloodshot eyes, hollow cheeks, lips pressed in a tight line that looked too much like my father's when he was disappointed.
And he'd be disappointed if he saw me now. No-furious. But when wasn't he?
I reached for the bottle again, tilted it, watched the amber swirl.
For a second, I thought about stopping. About water. About a shower, a shave, a clean shirt, stepping back into the mask before anyone saw the cracks.
But the second passed. The whiskey hit the back of my throat again, hot and bitter.
My phone buzzed on the nightstand. I didn't check it. Probably Bryan's staff, already on to the next event. Or Margot, wondering where I'd disappeared to after we got home. She'd been smiling for the cameras last night, but I'd seen it in her eyes-she knew something was off. She always knew.
Didn't matter.
I leaned back on the mattress, the ceiling blurring overhead. My mind went where I didn't want it to-her again. The way Amira's eyes had flicked up when Bryan said my name. That split second when they locked on mine. No fear, no nerves. Just recognition.
And maybe-if I let myself believe it-something else.
I hated myself for even hoping.
Another swallow of whiskey burned its way down, heavier this time, dulling the ache behind my eyes.
The world wanted Vice President Whitmore. My father wanted a soldier. Bryan wanted a name on a ticket. Margot wanted a husband she could parade around.
And me?
I wanted one woman I couldn't have.
The bottle sat heavy in my hand. My head tipped back, eyes closing against the light, but sleep wouldn't come. Not anymore.
The door creaked open behind me. Light footsteps padded across the hardwood, careful, deliberate.
"Brooks?"
Her voice was soft, still raspy from sleep, wrapped in silk and honey. I didn't turn right away. The smell of her perfume reached me before she did-floral, expensive, cloying against the whiskey still on my tongue.
Margot slid into my periphery, robe knotted loose at her waist, blonde hair spilling in waves like she'd stepped out of a campaign photo. Blue eyes sharp, searching. Even with the morning blur clinging to her, she was stunning. Perfect. The kind of woman magazines adored.
And she left me hollow.
"You've been up all night?" she asked, voice dipping low, almost worried.
"Couldn't sleep." I leaned forward, elbows on my knees, bottle dangling from my fingers.
She frowned, moving closer, hands grazing my shoulders like she could knead the tension out of me. "You can't keep doing this. Not now."
I let out a dry laugh. "Not now? That's all you've got?"
She ignored the edge in my tone, sliding her hand down my chest, fingers toying with the buttons of my shirt. "You've got the world watching tonight. Bryan, the press, the whole damn country. You need to be sharp. Rested. Presentable."
There it was. Presentable. The word everyone loved to use when they meant obedient.
I finally looked at her then, meeting her eyes, letting her see just enough of what I felt. "Don't worry. I'll play the part."
Her lips curved, not quite a smile. She leaned down, pressing her mouth to my jaw, slow and careful. "It's not about playing. It's about winning. You know that."
Her robe shifted as she moved, fabric sliding against skin, baring more of her chest. A tease, practiced and precise. She knew what she was doing. She always did.
I didn't flinch, didn't lean in. I let her hand graze my neck, her lips ghost closer. The way her body angled into mine was muscle memory at this point-comfort, strategy, something in between.
And still, all I felt was the burn of whiskey.
"Smile for them tonight," she whispered, lips brushing just beneath my ear. "You're about to make history. At least try to look like you want it."
She pressed one last kiss to my cheek, the kind that looked tender but felt calculated. Then she drifted back, silk trailing as she slipped out of the room, leaving behind perfume and silence.
The bottle was still in my hand. I stared at it a long moment before setting it down.
History.
That's what she wanted. What Bryan wanted. What my father demanded.
But history didn't feel like mine anymore.
The shower ran hot, steam filling the marble bathroom until the mirror blurred. I braced my hands on the sink, water dripping from my hair, jaw set tight. The whiskey was still in me, clawing through my veins, but at least it was muted now.
I let the water scald me clean, pulling on a crisp shirt, cufflinks biting into my wrists like restraints I'd chosen. The routine steadied me-tie, jacket, watch. Armor.
By the time my phone buzzed, I was already walking toward the door. Jenna's name lit the screen.
"Morning, Senator," she said, brisk as always. "Schedule's stacked. Briefing with Bryan's staff at ten, a donor lunch at noon, and we've blocked prep time for press conference with CNN."
"I'll be there," I muttered, sliding on my jacket.
"Good. And Brooks?"
I paused at the elevator. "What."
"Don't be late." She hung up before I could answer.
The elevator doors opened, and Monte was waiting in the lobby, leaning against the sleek black car like he'd been born to it. Sharp suit, clean fade, expression steady.
"Morning, sir," he said as he opened the door.
"Morning," I answered, sliding into the back.
The city moved past as the car eased into traffic. Sunlight bounced off glass towers, people crowded the sidewalks, and the weight of tonight pressed harder than the tie around my neck.
Monte glanced at me in the mirror, brow raised. "Rough night?"
I smirked faintly. "Define rough."
"Define morning whiskey," he shot back, not missing a beat.
I didn't answer, and he didn't push. That was Monte-steady, never nosy, but always sharper than anyone gave him credit for.
For a while we rode in silence, the city buzzing on both sides. Then he cleared his throat, casual as if he were commenting on the weather.
"Ran into someone last night," he said.
"Yeah?" I leaned back, eyes half on the window.
"Ms. Hart." His tone was light, almost teasing. "Saw her leaving the event. Pretty thing, gold dress. She wasn't alone."
My hand stilled against my cuff.
Monte trailed it out, like he was testing the water. "Guy had his hand on her back. Looked comfortable. Real comfortable."
Heat pressed low in my chest, sharp and ugly. I kept my face neutral, eyes on the blur of the city, but my jaw ticked once.
Monte didn't look back, just let the silence stretch. Then, softer, almost fatherly: "Don't let it rattle you. You got bigger things on your plate."
I didn't answer. Couldn't.
Because it did rattle me.
More than I wanted to admit.
Monte let the silence hang long enough for me to feel it, then he exhaled through his nose, a low sound that wasn't judgment-just knowing.
"Look," he said, voice calmer now, "I've seen you since you were fresh outta school. You've always carried the weight like it was yours alone. But nobody wins carrying the whole damn world on their back."
My eyes flicked to the mirror, caught his. He wasn't preaching, wasn't pushing. Just laying it out plain.
"You forget sometimes," he went on, "you're allowed to be a man before you're a Whitmore. Allowed to want things, even if they don't fit the picture they built for you."
I let out a low laugh, dry but real. "You sound like my conscience."
He grinned faintly, eyes back on the road. "Nah. Just someone who's been around long enough to know the cost of living for everybody else's approval. It'll eat you alive if you let it."
The words settled heavier than the whiskey. I leaned back, watching the city roll by, my chest tight but looser somehow.
"You ever regret staying?" I asked after a moment. "Being tied to this... machine."