16.0 #2
I straightened the tie one last time, checked the mirror again. The man looking back was calm, controlled, inevitable. Exactly what they'd expect. Exactly what they'd come to see.
By the time the elevator doors opened to the lobby, the car was already waiting, black paint catching the last strip of sun. Monte stood by the door, hand on the handle, nod crisp as ever.
I slid in, closed the door, let the city blur by outside.
Dinner was waiting.
The restaurant was built for deals. Dim enough to blur edges, bright enough on the table to make faces clear. Private room, long polished oak, silver and crystal laid out in precise order. It smelled faintly of wine and power.
Bryan was already there, jacket hung neatly behind his chair. He rose when I walked in, clasped my hand hard enough to remind me he liked testing grip strength. Margot sat opposite, posture perfect, smile practiced.
"Good to see you, son," Bryan said. Not Brooks. Never. Always son.
I gave him the smile he wanted. "Always a pleasure."
Introductions blurred into the usual shuffle of coats and handshakes, glasses poured, laughter pitched just loud enough to sound like ease.
The private room wasn't empty — aides and donors filled in the edges, chatter breaking in waves while Bryan anchored the center like it was his living room.
Jenna kept her tablet at her side, silent, catching everything.
I let my eyes move over the crowd, the blur of suits and practiced smiles. And then—there. A face that tugged at memory, sharp enough to slow me down. I stared a second too long before it clicked. Kian. Clean suit, smug tilt to his mouth, sliding into a seat near Bryan's end of the table.
He didn't look my way at first. Greeted Bryan, clasped Margot's hand, nodded at two of the staffers. By the time his eyes met mine, the recognition had already settled.
Dinner moved in stages—small talk, polling numbers, Bryan's anecdotes about campaign strategy. Margot played her part, agreeing where she should, nudging me under the table once when Bryan leaned too far into a story about loyalty.
I played mine. Nodding, steady, measured. Saying enough to sound engaged, not enough to give them teeth.
And then Bryan looked at me directly over his glass. "So tell me, Brooks. What's been keeping you busy off-hours? You've been looking sharper lately."
It was an opening I didn't want. I gave him the clean answer. "Late nights. Long days. Preparation."
Margot leaned in at one point, whispering something about stepping to the bathroom. She left with her usual poise, heels clicking against the floor, the door shutting soft behind her.
"Whatever you're doing, son, it's working." Bryan's smile was thin, like he was inspecting me more than complimenting me. His gaze shifted down the table, toward Kian. "Where's the girl you brought last time? Correct me if I'm wrong—I believe her name was Amira?"
I froze for a breath, the stem of my glass warm between my fingers.
Before I could speak, Kian leaned back in his chair, casual arrogance dripping from every word. "She couldn't make it," he said smoothly, as if it was his line to deliver. "Busy babysitting her daughter."
The words landed sharper than any jab Bryan could have crafted. A ripple went through the table—not loud, but felt, like a shift in air pressure. I kept my face still, but inside, something buckled.
The ripple passed quick, disguised as polite interest. One of Bryan's aides leaned forward, asking something light about whether Amira worked in the city, if she was "political" or just a friend. Laughter smoothed over the edges, the way it always did when the right names and wrong details collided.
Kian answered with a shrug, comfortable in his role. "She's local. Works hard. That's about all I know." He tipped his glass, the picture of disinterest, though the smirk at the corner of his mouth gave him away.
I kept my expression flat, thumb circling the stem of my glass once, twice. Daughter. The word had landed heavy, louder in my head than the whole room's conversation. I forced myself to look past Kian, past Bryan, scanning the table like the reveal hadn't gutted me.
Bryan only nodded, moving the dinner back toward strategy talk, polls, and donors. Everyone else followed suit, the moment swallowed by clinking forks and refilled wine.
But I sat there with the echo of it, every number Bryan recited blurring behind the single fact I hadn't been trusted to know.
Bryan moved on seamlessly, talking margins in Pennsylvania, the importance of the youth vote. People nodded, scribbled notes, traded polished laughs. The table filled with the hum of politics-as-usual.
I sat among it, posture steady, hand loose on my fork, the picture of attention. Anyone watching would've thought I was with them, that I was weighing the counties Bryan rattled off.
But my mind wasn't in Pennsylvania. It wasn't on margins or turnout. It had snapped backward, fixed on one name and one word.
Amira. Daughter.
The conversation flowed like a river I was standing beside but not in.
Every time Bryan's voice rose, every time someone asked about donors or messaging, I found myself reaching back instead—trying to make sense of the way Kian had dropped it so casually, like he hadn't just cracked something open in me.
"Hold on," I said, voice steady but a shade too sharp. "Do I know Amira? Or are we talking about someone else?"
A small silence, just long enough to draw eyes. Bryan chuckled, reaching across to tap my shoulder like I'd missed the obvious. "She's the girl Kian brought around the night of the announcement party. You remember—pretty thing, had on gold, stood out."
Laughter trickled back, the table settling. But I wasn't laughing.
Inside, the floor shifted. Every late call with her, every moment I thought we were building toward something steady, cracked in half. A daughter. And she hadn't said a word.
I kept my expression clean, my nod polite, but underneath the mask I was unraveling. How old? Who was the father? And why the hell couldn't she trust me with this?
I excused myself with something vague—phone call, quick step away—and stood before anyone could push. The conversation behind me filled back in, effortless.
Margot stood across the room, chatting easily with two women in sharp blazers and diamonds that caught the chandelier light. I crossed to her, keeping my stride smooth, my expression collected.
"Margot," I said, voice pitched low enough to stay private. She turned, mid-laugh, brows lifting.
"I'm not feeling well," I told her, buttoning the excuse neatly. "I need to step out a minute."
Her smile faltered into something tight, but she covered it quickly, hand brushing my arm as if to steady the optics. "Don't be long," she murmured, eyes flicking back to her audience.
I nodded once and slipped past, out of the room, out of the noise.
The cool air in the corridor hit harder than I expected. My chest felt wired, my jaw clenched. Amira. A daughter.
I pulled my phone out like it was the only thing tethering me, scrolling to her name. My thumb hovered just a second before I pressed call, stepping toward the exit.