14.0 #2
Her mouth pressed into a hard line. "You're not a bachelor running around anymore. You're supposed to be setting an example."
"An example for who?" I asked, tone flat. "It's fucking midnight you're acting like I went to go film a talk show."
That struck, and she didn't hide the flinch. "Don't do that. Don't twist this back on me.
My phone buzzed against the counter. I didn't have to look — one word lit in my chest anyway. Home.
I kept my eyes on Margot, not the screen. "What do you want me to say?"
"I want you to start taking us seriously!" she snapped. "You're running for vice president, Brooks. You don't get to disappear whenever you feel like it. You don't get to—"
I cut in, voice sharp. "Don't tell me what I get to do."
Silence stretched, brittle, before she crossed her arms. "Then what am I here for? Hm? Because lately it feels like I'm the only one holding up my end of the deal and the truth is, I don't think you even like me half the time."
"If you think that, Margot, maybe you're right."
Her face flushed hot. "You're unbelievable. Do you even hear yourself?"
I lifted the glass again, swallowed the last of the scotch. "Every word."
"You can't keep disappearing," she said, arms folded. "It's reckless. Irresponsible. And when people start asking where you are, I'm the one left looking like a fool."
I tipped back the scotch, let it burn, then set the glass down slow. "Margot," I ran a hand down my face. "If I have to repeat this again so help me god. It's after business hours no one is asking you where I am. This is just you trying to find ways to be involved in every movement I make."
My phone buzzed on the counter again.
Margot caught it. "Who is that?"
"Doesn't matter." My tone was final, but her eyes narrowed.
"It does when you can't even look at me while you answer." She stepped closer, chin tilted. "Tell me, Brooks — what do you think my father will say when he finds out about the way you're treating me? When he realizes his best friend's son doesn't take me, or this, seriously?"
That landed harder than the scotch. She knew exactly where to cut.
I let the silence hang, then smiled, slow and cold. "Your father's been my father's shadow for thirty years. Don't kid yourself — he's not the one I answer to."
Her eyes flashed. "Don't be so sure. They've built this entire ticket on trust, on loyalty. If you burn me, you burn both of them."
The phone buzzed again. My hand twitched toward it, not her.
And that was the moment I saw it in her face — the realization. She didn't know who, not yet, but she knew there was someone else pulling me away.
"You're going to regret this," she said finally, voice sharp as glass. "I'll make sure of it."
She spun out of the kitchen, heels slicing across the hardwood, and the door slammed. The echo carried longer than it should've. Margot always wanted the last word, and she got it this time, too — sharp and aimed at the jugular.
You'll regret this.
Maybe she was right. Maybe the whole damn world would make me regret it. My father. Her father. Every polished smile in Washington waiting for me to slip. But none of it landed the way she wanted. Not when my phone buzzed again in my hand.
Amira
Home.
That one word had more pull than Margot's entire monologue.
I leaned back against the counter, dragging a hand down my face.
I should've cared more about the threat — about optics, loyalty, the fathers who'd built this whole thing on handshakes and promises.
Instead, all I could see was her cardigan sleeves pulled over her hands, the way she laughed in spite of herself when I pushed too far.
The way she tensed at shadows like the whole city was watching, and how she finally let herself fold into me anyway.
I'd been reckless. Kissing her again, in public, with streetlights throwing halos over our heads.
But for the first time in weeks, maybe months, I felt alive.
Not like a candidate, not like someone's son, not like a name on a ballot.
Just a man standing in front of the only woman who ever made silence feel like enough.
I picked up the glass, remembered it was empty, and set it back down. Margot's voice was still echoing in the corners — her father, my father, optics, loyalty. Words stacked on words, the weight of expectation pressing in.
But Amira's text cut through it all, clean and sharp. Home.
I typed it back before I could think better of it.
Brooks
Good. Thank you.
Simple. Too simple for what it meant.
Because she'd gone home, and I hadn't. I was still stuck here, in this penthouse that never felt like mine, with a woman I couldn't stand, wearing a life that didn't fit no matter how many times they tailored the suit.
And all I could think about was her.
I woke to light too sharp for the hour. For a second I thought it was the hangover, then remembered I hadn't had enough to drink for that. The ache was somewhere else.
Margot was already gone. No note, no perfume trail, no slammed doors this time. Just absence. Fine by me.
I dragged myself through the motions—shower, shave, starch in the collar.
The same suit rotation they liked me in, dark and decisive.
The tie Jenna had insisted tested best in focus groups.
By the time I left the penthouse, I looked like someone who'd slept.
Like someone who didn't have threats echoing in his skull or a single word text replaying on a loop.
The car ride was quiet, Monte watching me from the mirror but knowing better than to ask. I scrolled my phone like I was catching up on headlines, but the truth was I was checking the same thread. Nothing new from her. Just the one word from last night. Home.
The office was humming before I even stepped through the door. Phones ringing, shoes clicking against tile, staffers moving fast with their coffee like it was oxygen. Jenna intercepted me with a stack of folders.
"Morning. Video damage control is working. We're pushing 'relatable' instead of 'reckless.'" She rattled it off without breath. "And we've scheduled a photo-op with your father for Friday. Emphasize continuity, stability, all that good stuff."
I gave her the look they expected: calm, unbothered, like the storm belonged to someone else. "Good," I said, voice even. "Make sure they don't overplay it. Relatable dies fast if you force it."
Her mouth tugged into the tight smile she wore when she was impressed. "On it."
The rest of the morning blurred—conference calls, briefings, nodding at men who liked the sound of their own voices. I knew when to add a line, when to cut one off. Muscle memory by now. But under the table, my hand stayed near the phone, waiting for a buzz that didn't come.
Between meetings, I caught myself staring out the window. Down below, the city pulsed on. Somewhere in it, she was awake.
But last night had reminded me how fast it all came back. One word, one laugh, one look, and I was right back in the fire.
"Senator?" Jenna's voice broke in, pulling me to my feet. "We're ready for you."
I straightened the tie, slipped the mask all the way on.