10.0 #3
She smirked, stepping closer. "And don't fool yourself. Nobody respects you. They respect your last name. Without Whitmore, you're nothing. You wouldn't even have a seat at the table. Hell, you wouldn't have a table."
I clenched my fists.
She tilted her head, enjoying it. "And the saddest part? Even your mother knows it. That's why she dotes on you like you're porcelain. She knows if she doesn't, you'll crack. And she's right."
That landed deeper than I wanted to admit.
Margot leaned on the counter, voice dropping.
"You know why your father pushed us together? Because he knew you couldn't keep anyone else. I was the only one who'd tolerate you. That's why I'm here-not because I love you, not because you're worth anything, but because you're a job. A fucking babysitting job."
Her laugh was sharp, bitter. "And you still can't even keep that together." chest heaving.
I pointed at the hallway, voice low but shaking with rage. "Get the fuck out of my face."
She spun on her heel, hair whipping over her shoulder, and stormed down the hall. The bedroom door slammed so hard the whole apartment shook.
I stood in the wreckage - glass everywhere, whiskey burning in the air, my throat raw from shouting - and for the first time all night, I didn't feel drunk.
I felt wrecked.
The apartment was quiet again, but not the kind that soothed. It was the kind that pressed in, thick and ugly, holding onto every word we'd just hurled.
I gripped the edge of the counter, shards digging into my palm. Blood welled, sharp and hot, but I barely felt it. My head was ringing with her voice, her laugh, the way she'd said Amira's name like it was a weapon.
Margot and I knew each other's weapons too well.
That was the problem. We'd grown up in the same circles, learned how to smile for the same cameras, cut our teeth on the same kind of sharp-edged expectations.
I'd been at her sixteenth birthday party, she'd been at my first campaign fundraiser.
Our families had braided us together long before either of us had a choice.
And now, every fight felt like a rerun of all the times we'd been shoved into each other's orbit-debutante balls, charity galas, "family vacations" that were really photo ops.
Except now the stakes weren't just glossy spreads in society pages.
Now it was my career, my name, the presidency on the horizon.
She knew it too. That's why she could say things no one else dared. That's why she could rip me open and smile while she did it. Because she'd seen me as a boy, stumbling through prep school, drunk on cheap scotch, desperate for my father's approval. She'd seen the cracks before the world did.
And I'd seen her. The ambition. The hunger that no amount of pearls or designer gowns could cover. The way she'd rehearsed her smile in the mirror at fourteen because she knew one day it would be her currency.
We weren't in love. We'd never been in love. But we were bound-by history, by family, by the kind of arrangement that turned kids into pawns and marriages into contracts.
I dragged a hand over my face, glass biting my skin, and laughed once, low and broken.
The laugh didn't last. It curdled, cracked in my throat until I was left choking on air. My chest was tight, eyes burning, blood dripping warm between my fingers where the glass had cut.
I staggered to the sink, turned on the faucet, and shoved my hand under. Water ran pink, then red, then thin again. The sting was sharp, but sharp was better than hollow.
I pressed a dish towel over the cut and leaned on the counter with my other hand. The apartment looked like a crime scene. Broken glass glinting on marble, whiskey soaking into the grain, Margot's perfume still hanging like smoke.
My phone lit on the counter. Headlines. Push alerts. Tweets. Drunk senator. Unfit. Implosion.
I flipped it face down again, but the words were already written across my brain.
I thought about pouring another drink. My hand twitched toward the cabinet out of habit. But I didn't. Not this time.
Instead, I grabbed the towel tighter, let the blood seep in, and walked out onto the balcony.
Philly glittered below, loud and alive, every light a pulse. Out there, people were laughing, eating, making love. Inside here, I was bleeding into a towel like some tragic headline in waiting.
The city air was damp, cool on my face. I leaned on the railing and let it hold my weight.
I thought about Amira. The way her name had ripped through me when Margot spat it like poison. Four years hadn't dulled a damn thing. If anything, it made the memory sharper. I saw her face in the crowd tonight like I'd dreamed her into existence. Saw her eyes hit mine and felt the ground tilt.
I knew better than to call. I'd promised myself after the wedding night I wouldn't reach for her again. That was the one thing I'd tried to honor.
But my phone was only a few feet away, glowing like temptation.
I closed my eyes, pressed my bleeding hand harder to the towel, and let the thought sit anyway.
Her voice. Just once.
One word.
The city roared under me, and I whispered into the night, too quiet for anyone but me to hear-
"Amira."