8.0 #2
Monte chuckled, warm and easy. "I don't think about regret. I think about purpose. My purpose ain't to be in front of the camera. It's to make sure you don't lose yourself when you're under those lights. That's enough for me."
I swallowed, the burn in my throat nothing to do with liquor. "You ever get tired of pulling me back?"
He met my gaze again in the mirror, steady as always. "Not once."
The car hummed quiet after that, softer somehow, the city noise fading to background. For the first time all morning, my shoulders eased.
Monte pulled the car into the underground garage, the tires echoing against concrete. The hum of the motorcade peeled away behind us, leaving just his sedan rolling to a stop in my reserved spot.
"Big day yesterday," he said as he shifted into park, tone casual now. "Don't let it eat you up too much, boss."
I gave him a nod. "Thanks, Monte."
He just smiled, like he knew that was as close as I'd come to saying more.
The elevator ride up was quiet, my reflection staring back in the polished steel doors. Navy suit, pressed sharp, eyes still tired. I looked like the man they all wanted me to be, but the hollowness underneath didn't go anywhere.
The office was dim when I stepped in, the blinds half-drawn against the morning glare. Papers stacked neat on the desk, a fresh carafe of coffee waiting-staff knew my routines better than I did. I set my briefcase down, loosened my tie, and sank into the chair.
The phone buzzed before I even had time to breathe. My mother's name lit the screen.
I hesitated, then answered. "Morning."
"Brooks." Her voice came warm, polished, threaded with that D.C. lilt she never lost. "I just wanted to tell you-you looked wonderful last night. Poised, sharp, the way your father and I always knew you could be."
Compliments, wrapped in expectations. The same language she'd been speaking my whole life.
"Thanks, Mom."
"I mean it," she pressed, softer now. "We're proud of you. The whole country will be, too. This is what you were made for."
I leaned back in the chair, staring up at the ceiling tiles. Made for. Like I was a suit stitched together for a single purpose, not a man who could choose his own.
"I appreciate it," I said, voice even.
She lingered on the line a moment longer, filling the silence with little hums of approval. "Your father told me about Bryan's remarks. Strong words, Brooks. History's at your fingertips. Don't forget that."
History. Legacy. Duty. All the same chains, just polished in gold.
"I won't," I murmured, though the words tasted like ash.
When she hung up, the office went quiet again, the air heavy with her praise and everything unsaid.
I let the phone drop to the desk, rubbed a hand over my face, and sat there staring at the city skyline through the blinds. Out there, people were living their lives, free from the weight of a last name that felt like a prison.
And here I was, dressed up in expectation, pretending I still believed in the future they'd scripted for me.
That sterile, museum-grade quiet that made you want to cough just to prove you were alive.
I sat behind the desk, jacket slung over the back of the chair, tie loosened, staring at the phone where my mother's voice still seemed to echo.
You looked great last night... we're so proud... history in the making.
I didn't feel like history. I felt like shit.
The bottle waited in the bottom drawer. I'd told myself not to bring it here-office hours, discipline, optics-but discipline was a word that belonged to someone else's vocabulary, not mine.
I pulled it free anyway. Whiskey, half-gone.
I poured it into the mug sitting on the desk, still faint with the smell of coffee. Close enough.
One swallow. Then another. The burn dulled the pounding in my head. Or maybe it just gave me something sharper to focus on.
I leaned back in the chair, rolling the glass between my palms, staring out the window where the city glinted pale under midday sun.
For a second, I thought about what Monte had said in the car-about Amira.
Ms. Hart. Leaving with a man. His tone had been careful, like he was fishing without a line.
I hadn't given him much, just a grunt, but the thought still sat there, sour and restless, like bad liquor.
The knock came soft, quick. Jenna didn't wait for an answer. She never did.
"Senator," she said briskly, tablet hugged to her chest. Two aides followed, both young, both overeager. Their eyes darted from me to the papers spread across the desk, to the mug in my hand. Neither said a word.
"Let's keep it short," I muttered, adjusting in my chair. My voice was steady enough, even if my tongue felt too heavy in my mouth.
Jenna arched a brow like she knew better, but she launched in anyway. "We need to finalize language for the O'Connell interview. Bryan's team wants clear emphasis on unity, family values, the-"
"Unity," I repeated, almost laughing. The word stuck in my throat, dry as ash. I tipped the mug again, swallowing slow.
Jenna's gaze cut sharp to the cup, but she didn't comment. Instead, she flicked her screen, scrolling. "Talking points on foreign policy-keep it broad, defer specifics to Bryan. They want you to push infrastructure and healthcare. Smile when you say affordable."
"Smile when I say affordable," I echoed, lips tugging up in something that wasn't a smile at all. The aides chuckled nervously.
One of them-the taller one-started rattling off figures about swing-state polling.
I half-listened, nodding at the right places, though the numbers swam the second they left his mouth.
I caught myself repeating a question Jenna had already answered.
She didn't flinch, just answered again, tone clipped.
The second aide chimed in, voice higher, asking if I'd be open to mentioning my father's legacy in the speech. I laughed then-too loud, too sharp. The sound made all three of them pause.
"Mention my father's legacy," I said, leaning back, mug dangling from my fingers. "That's what you think the people want to hear? Another Whitmore climbing on the family name like it's scaffolding?"
The aides looked at each other, caught between nodding and retreat. Jenna stepped in, voice smooth. "We'll table that. No legacy language. Let's keep focus on your individual achievements, Senator."
Senator. Not Brooks. Never Brooks.
The rest of the meeting blurred-policy notes, scheduling reminders, Bryan's team breathing down our necks. I answered what I had to, let the rest wash over me. I could see Jenna cataloging every slip, every pause, the way my words lagged just half a beat behind my thoughts.
Finally, she dismissed the aides with a flick of her hand. They scurried out, relief plain in their posture. The door clicked shut.
The silence between us stretched, thick. Jenna set her tablet down on the desk, eyes steady on me.
"You need to get it together," she said flatly. "Before tonight. Cameras don't forgive."
I tipped the mug again, draining the last swallow. "Relax. I'll be fine."
"You're not fine." Her tone was clipped, but not unkind. She smoothed the papers on my desk, her hand brushing too close to the bottle I hadn't bothered to hide. "You're smart enough to know the difference."
I watched her, the clean line of her blazer, the tight knot of her hair. Efficient, polished. Everything I was supposed to be.
The words landed sharper than I expected. For a second, I almost laughed again-bitter, reckless. Instead, I set the mug down hard enough that the sound cracked through the quiet.
"You don't have to worry about me," I said. "I'll show up. I always do."
Jenna studied me a moment longer, then slid the bottle of water she'd brought to the edge of the desk. "Drink this. And try to remember that showing up isn't the same as leading."
She picked up her tablet, gathered her things, and left without another word.
The door clicked shut, leaving me alone again. The bottle sat heavy in the drawer, the water sweating on the desk.
I stared at both for a long time.
Then I reached for the bottle.
The apartment was quiet again by the time I got home. Too quiet.
I stripped off the jacket and tossed it over the back of a chair, poured two fingers of whiskey, and let it sit in my hand while I paced. The city outside looked alive, neon buzzing, sirens cutting the air. In here, everything felt stale.
I set the glass down and pulled open the drawer I never touched.
Photos. Old ones. Glossy edges, curled from years of being moved and ignored but never thrown away. A younger me smiling for cameras I didn't want to face. Campaigns before mine. My father's hand heavy on my shoulder. My mother's perfect smile.
I thumbed through them too fast, like I could outrun the weight.
Family portraits. Fundraisers. College shots from when I thought I still had time to figure myself out. A campaign Christmas card with Margot tucked tight against me, her hair blinding under the lights, her smile sharper than the ornaments.
Then I slowed.
One picture slid loose, smaller than the others. The edges were softer, worn.
Amira.
She was laughing in it, head tilted, eyes bright like she didn't know someone was watching. My arm was around her, casual, easy. Like we hadn't been carrying the whole world on our backs yet.
For a second, it didn't feel like years had passed. It felt like the night it was taken. Like I could hear her voice in my ear again, soft but steady, grounding me in a way no one else ever had.
My chest tightened. Whiskey burned hotter when I swallowed.
Everything after this photo was different. Everything after her was a slow unravel.
I let the picture hang between my fingers until it shook. Then I set it on the desk, face-down, and poured another drink.
The glass clinked sharp against the wood. The silence swallowed me again.
And I didn't pick it back up.