They All Own Me
1. Tatum
Chapter 1
Tatum
The sharp corners of my smile strain my cheeks as I stand beside Thomas, my hand resting delicately on his arm. The Youth Development Center's undefiled walls and fresh paint smell can't mask the staleness of these political events.
"Senator Cope, your dedication to the youth of our city is admirable," a portly businessman says, his gold cufflinks catching the light.
Thomas straightens his already perfect tie. "The future of America rests in their hands. We must invest in their potential."
I squeeze his arm right on cue, playing my part. The words he speaks aren't his – they're from the index cards he's studied that his busty blonde assistant Tammy prepared for him.
"And Mrs. Cope," the businessman's wife chirps, "you must be so proud."
"Beyond words." My practiced response slides out smooth as honey. "Thomas has always had such vision for community development."
His hand covers mine, his grip a fraction too tight. "My wife's being modest. She's the real force behind these initiatives."
A lie. I tried suggesting actual youth programs once. He shut those down faster than his last opponent's campaign.
A group of children rush past us, their sneakers squeaking against the polished floor. Thomas's jaw tightens – a micro-expression I've learned to read over our years together.
"Mr. Senator!" A little girl with braids tugs at his sleeve. "Will you read us a story?"
His perfectly veneered teeth flash. "Of course, sweetheart. What would you like to hear?"
I dig my nails into my palm. Just last week, he'd ranted about the neighbor's kids being too loud. "Can't they keep those damn brats inside?" he'd said.
Thomas settles into a chair, surrounded by cross-legged children. His hands hold the book like it might bite him. The memory of him scheduling my IUD appointment burns in my mind.
"Your body would never recover, no one wants a wife who never sheds the baby weight," he'd said. "Besides, children are messy. They don't fit our image."
"Once upon a time," he reads, his voice projecting just enough for the hovering reporters to catch.
A small boy leans against Thomas's leg. I watch his free hand twitch, wanting to push him away. Instead, he pats the child's head – right when the cameras click.
"Mrs. Cope," a reporter sidles up to me. "Your husband seems so natural with children. Any plans to start a family of your own?"
The question hits like ice water. "We're focused on serving all of America's children right now." The rehearsed answer tastes bitter. "There's so much work to be done."
Thomas catches my eye over the book, a warning in his gaze. I know what that look means: stick to the script, play the part, keep quiet about the truth.
The little girl with braids raises her hand. "But what happens next?"
"Well," Thomas says, checking his Rolex, "sometimes we have to save the ending for another day."
The disappointment on their faces makes my stomach turn. He's already standing, straightening his tie, ready to abandon these kids just like he's abandoned any chance of us having our own.
My gaze drifts to the back of the room where my parents stand, their perfect smiles matching their perfect clothes. Mom's pearls catch the light as she waves, Dad's gold wedding band glinting with each movement. The same ring he wore when he signed away my life ten years ago.
"Such a lovely couple," Mom had said that day, smoothing my white dress. "The Copes are exactly what this family needs."
What this family needs. Not what her seventeen-year-old daughter needed.
When I was younger, I'd dream of a small house on ten acres, with window boxes full of flowers. Maybe in Vermont or Maine. Somewhere with actual seasons, where leaves change colors and snow falls soft and silent. Two kids, maybe three. A garden where I'd grow tomatoes and herbs. A husband who'd kiss me goodbye each morning and mean it.
Instead, I got a brick and mortar prison, that sits in the middle of suburbia where the HOA texts you if your trash cans aren't returned ten minutes after they're picked up. Oh, and artificial plants because Thomas thinks real ones are messy, and a marriage certificate that might as well be a business contract.
"Wonderful reading, son," Dad calls out as Thomas makes his way toward them. His hand finds the small of my back, pushing me forward.
"Richard, Margaret." Thomas nods. "So glad you could make it."
Mom beams at him like he's the second coming. "We wouldn't miss it. Nice touch with the children, that looks good for reelection."
My stomach turns. She knows about the IUD. About how Thomas scheduled the appointment without asking me. She was there when I cried about it.
I watch them laugh together, these three people who decided my future over brandy and cigars, while Mom pretends not to notice how Thomas's fingers dig into my hip.
A sharp jab to my ribs snaps me from my thoughts. Thomas leans in close, his breath hot against my ear.
"Look approachable, for fuck's sake. There are cameras everywhere." His whisper carries an edge sharp enough to cut glass.
I straighten my spine and paste on my camera-ready smile.
The next hour drags like nails across concrete as Thomas works the room. He's in his element, shaking hands and spouting empty promises.
"Senator Cope, your education initiative sounds fascinating." A leggy blonde in a dress that looks like it came from the juniors section touches his arm. Her wedding ring catches the light.
"I'd be happy to discuss it in more detail over coffee at the office sometime." Thomas's voice drops an octave. The same tone he used when he first met me.
I just sink deeper into the plush chair along the wall, watching him charm his way through the crowd.
The photographer circles like a shark, his camera clicking away. I cross my ankles, adjust my pearls, maintain the pose Thomas's image consultant drilled into me.
"Mrs. Cope?" A waiter appears at my elbow. "The Senator asked me to bring you water."
Not wine. Never wine at public events. "Can't have you getting loose-lipped," He had said after last year's Christmas gala.
"Thank you." I accept the glass, careful not to smudge it with fingerprints.
I take a sip of water and wonder if the other wives notice how he treats me. If they care. Or if they're all just playing their parts too.
I glance at my watch, the diamonds catching the harsh fluorescent light. Fifty-seven minutes. The seconds tick by like molasses dripping from a spoon.
"Your dress is absolutely divine," another politician's wife gushes, her voice high and artificial. "Valentino?"
"Carolina Herrera." I smooth nonexistent wrinkles from my skirt. "Thomas has impeccable taste."
More like Thomas's stylist has impeccable taste. The same one who laid out my entire wardrobe after burning my favorite jeans and t-shirts.
A photographer approaches, his camera hanging around his next. "Mrs. Cope, would you mind joining the Senator? Perfect lighting by the banner."
My heels click against the floor as I cross the room. Each step feels like walking through quicksand.
"There's my girl." Thomas's arm snakes around my waist, pulling me close. His cologne mingles with someone else's perfume. "Smile for the cameras, sweetheart."
I bare my teeth in what I hope passes for joy, counting down the minutes until I can drop this act and retreat to my wing of the house. Fifty-two minutes and counting.
The leather seat of the limo creaks as I slide in, my heels clicking against the floor mat. Thomas follows, loosening his tie with one hand while dismissing the driver's attempt to close the door.
"What the fuck was that in there?" His voice cuts through the air-conditioned silence.
I readjust my skirt, buying time. "I'm not sure what you mean."
"Don't play dumb, Tatum. You were completely checked out. Mrs. Henderson asked you about the charity gala twice."
The partition slides up, giving us privacy. Lucky driver.
"I answered her questions." My fingers trace the stitching on my Hermès bag – the one Thomas bought to apologize for missing our anniversary.
"Yeah, like a fucking robot." He pulls out his phone, scrolling through emails. "You're supposed to be charming, engaging. Instead, you sat there like some department store mannequin."
"I smiled. I nodded. I played my part."
"Barely." His jaw clenches. "Do you know how it looks when my wife can't even pretend to give a shit about my career?"
"Your career?" A laugh escapes before I can stop it. "You mean the one my father bought you?"
The phone drops to his lap. "Watch yourself Tatum. You're not exactly irreplaceable."
The threat hangs between us as the limo merges into traffic. I turn to watch the city lights blur past my window, counting the blocks until we reach home. Sixteen more to go.