Chapter 4
SELENE
Iused to love coming to work.
The thrill of walking into a building that doesn’t have my name on the door but bears my mark anyway.
The satisfaction of being around people who hate small talk as much as I do and don’t look at me weird when I order the same dish from the same restaurant for lunch every day for three months.
The buzz of excitement that would roll through my body and shoot out of my fingertips when inspiration for a new program struck.
I’m waiting to feel it now, fingers poised over the keyboard, teeth digging into my bottom lip, brain frustratingly quiet.
I’ve passed hours like this. Not today, but over the course of the nearly four months Aubrey has been in office.
As First Lady, my duty is to this country and not my business, so I only get to come to Culture Code twice a week, and every minute of my limited time is spent suspended in the agony of trying to create.
Anyone who’s ever taken something fluid and given it shape, blessed it with form, imbued it with purpose, knows creation isn’t something that can be forced.
You have to be willing to surrender control, if only for a second, so it can flow through you.
That part has always been hard for me, but decades of coding have taught me that it’s possible under the right conditions.
The most important of which is the one thing I have less and less of whenever I’m here: time.
Back in January, I made it clear to Allegra—my social secretary—that my days at Culture Code were to be blocked off.
No appearances. No interviews. No stupid meetings about rehearsals for State Dinners.
Just me, my work, my office, my people. She promised to honor the request, and for a while there she did.
I would get to spend two full days at the office, even managing to work late sometimes Then, slowly, but surely, that changed.
A quick meeting before you go to the office here.
An appearance that will require you to leave the office there.
Suddenly, my designated days were mere hours I was lucky to have, and my ability to curate an environment conducive to creating was gone.
I slam my laptop shut and push back from my desk, blowing out a harsh breath.
“No luck?” Monique asks, glancing up from her makeshift work station at the conference table in the far corner of the office.
We were supposed to be having a work date of sorts, using the other’s presence as motivation to get things done.
Usually body doubling works great for me, but today it seems to only be benefiting her.
“None. I should have let you sit at the desk.”
A frown forms between her brows as she scribbles a note on one of the papers in front of her. “It’s your desk, Sel. I’m fine right here.”
“You work at it more than I do, Mo. At this point, it’s yours. The office too.”
While this is the first time I’ve lent my voice to the thought, it’s not the first time it’s run across my mind.
I feel like an imposter in this space. A child playing pretend while all the grown ups look on indulgently, waiting for me to finish so they can get back to work.
No one has ever said that to me, of course, but the energy is there.
Present in Monique’s coffee mug on the coaster to my right.
Obvious in the way employees direct their inquiries to her even when I’m in the room.
Demonstrated by my repeated failure to have a single moment of productivity.
“Why are you talking like that?” she asks, tossing her pen down and pinning me with a hard stare. “You planning on killing yourself or something?”
Her ridiculous question pulls a snort of laughter out of me. “No, Monique, I’m not planning on killing myself.”
“Then why are you trying to give me your office and that ugly ass desk?”
My mouth drops open. “My desk isn’t ugly!”
“Wrong. It’s hideous, but it’s yours, and it’s going to stay that way.”
“We can get you a new one.”
“Selene,” she groans, throwing her head back on her shoulders. “I don’t want a new one. I like the one I have in my office.”
“But it’s too small for this space. It’ll look ridiculous.” I push to my feet and round the desk, standing a few feet away from it to really try to envision Monique’s dainty furniture here. “You need something grand. Something commanding. Something that says Monique Walker, CEO.”
The next time she speaks, she’s right beside me. Her voice is soft, but firm, with a hint of worry underneath the sass and severity.
“What’s going on with you?”
I twist my lips to the side and shrug. “I’m just being realistic, Mo. I’m not the leader Culture Code needs right now. I’m never here.”
“You’re here twice a week. That’s more than most people in your position would give a job.”
“It’s not enough for me, and it’s not just a job. It’s my business.”
She throws her hands up, eyes stretching wide. “Exactly! It’s your business, which means you will always belong at the helm of it. You don’t just give that shit away to anyone, not even your best friend.”
I want to accept her words as the validation they’re so clearly meant to be, but it’s hard to believe when I can’t do my favorite part of my job. “I can’t even write a line of code, Mo,” I whisper.
“Bitch, neither can I,” she exclaims, and despite my sour mood, I find myself diving into a pit of laughter behind her.
Somehow, we end up holding each other upright.
When we’ve recovered, Monique grabs my hand and leads me back around to the chair I abandoned, placing her hands on my shoulders to force me down into it.
Once I’m settled, she takes a seat in one of the arm chairs opposite me and stretches her legs out, propping her red-bottomed heels up on the edge of the desk.
“Level with me, Sel. Are you really thinking of leaving Culture Code?”
Just the thought of it makes my stomach twist into knots. The last thing I want is to leave this company, to abandon the work that was once the only reason I got out of bed in the morning, but the reality is I might.
“I just feel like I don’t have anything to offer,” I confess, my voice low, weighed down by shame. “Coming here is starting to feel like an exercise in futility. You have things well in hand. You don’t need me barging in and interrupting your stride twice a week.”
She rolls her eyes. “One, you’re not interrupting anything so cut that shit out. Two, if you don’t come down here that means I’ll have to come bang on the doors of the White House to see you, and they’ll probably arrest me. Is that what you want?”
Reminding her that she’d have to get past the gates and multiple security points before she could even get to the doors seems unnecessary, so I don’t bother.
“No, Monique, that’s not what I want.”
“Okay, so in order to keep you sane, me free and the company functioning, let’s end this conversation. There is no Culture Code without you, Selene. Whether you’re here for a second or here for eighteen hours a day, you’re still the heart and soul of this place.”
“If you say so.”
“I do say so,” she insists, eyes running anxious lines over my face. “Can you really not be here more often? I thought you said he was supportive of you continuing to work.”
“He is.”
The lie burns like acid on my tongue, and it comes too quickly.
Monique’s brows pull together. She is constantly suspicious of my marriage, picking apart everything I say and do as it relates to Aubrey because she can’t believe I could still love a man who apparently didn’t shed a tear for me while I was being held hostage by a man determined to kill me on national television.
I don’t blame her for being skeptical. I don’t blame my parents or my sisters either.
Everyone has questions, and all I have are the lies I tell to perpetuate the narrative Aubrey promised to kill me for contradicting.
“Okayyyyy,” Monique says slowly after a few tense seconds, where I force myself to hold perfectly still and maintain eye contact. “Then it shouldn’t be a problem for you to come into the office more. Just tell Allegory to keep it cute with the scheduling.”
Once again, I find myself laughing. “Her name is Allegra, and it’s not that simple, Mo.”
“Of course it is. You’re the First Lady. She works for you.”
“Right,” I drawl sarcastically. “How could I forget that?”
“That’s what I’m trying to figure out,” she says, tilting her head to the side. “Did you get any sleep last night?”
“What?”
“Sleep, Selene. Rest, recuperation, you know, when you lay down and close your eyes and your brain shuts off?”
I pick the pad of sticky notes next to the mouse and launch it at her head. “I know what sleep is, girl. I was just wondering where the question came from.”
She swats away the projectile just before it collides with her face. “Jesus! I was just curious!”
“Your curiosity wasn’t the problem. Your tone was.”
“Just answer the question, heffa.”
“No, Monique.” I let out a heavy sigh, knowing exactly where this conversation is going. “I didn’t get much sleep last night because I had a nightmare. What about you? Did you get your suggested eight hours?”
We both know the answer is no. Neither of us does a good job of taking care of ourselves, but Monique is usually worse than me about going to bed at a decent hour. After the kidnapping, that changed.
“This isn’t about me,” she says.
“Well, I don’t want it to be about me.”
“You’re the one having nightmares about the very real trauma you experienced that resulted in the death of three people. One of whom has a crazy ass racist daddy who told the world he was gunning for you.”
Monique’s recounting of Leland’s viral video is just as dramatic as Mama’s was when she called me about it yesterday after she got done talking to Cal and Beck.
I roll my eyes, and I’m not sure if the annoyance trickling down my spine is for my best friend or my mother and her ability to talk to my men whenever she wants.
“He did not say he was gunning for me.”
Her nostrils flare. “I’m not about to argue about word choice with you, Selene.”
“We’re not arguing. We’re not just discussing a series of facts you think are connected.”
“So you just think it’s a coincidence that you had your first nightmare in weeks after that video came out?”
Anyone with an ounce of common sense would know seeing Jacob’s face reflected in his father’s sneer was the cause of that awful dream returning, but I still resent Monique for making me admit it.
“No.”
It’s a low, defeated confession that my best friend takes no pleasure in extracting. She’s been riding the wave of my subconscious’ betrayal with me for months now, and I know I should do us both a favor and be a little less combative when it comes to addressing her concerns.
“Are you still against speaking to someone about all of this?”
“Thanks for talking me down earlier,” I say, switching subjects much to Monique’s frustration.
“You are getting on my last nerve today, you know that?” she growls, checking her watch and pushing to her feet. “You’re lucky I have a meeting with the coding academy coordinators, or else I’d beat your ass for all the shit you put me through.”
“No, you won’t. You love me too much,” I remind her, moving over to the door to give her a hug before we part ways. Even with her hands full, she manages to wrap me up in a tight hug. I’m so glad to have the physical contact, I don’t even complain about her laptop digging into my back.
“I do love you,” she confirms, pulling back to set a serious gaze on my face. “That’s why I want you to seriously think about going to therapy, okay?”
“Okay, Mo.”
She smiles and hurries off to her meeting, genuinely soothed by yet another lie. The truth, I haven’t just thought about therapy, I’ve longed for it. Yearned for a safe place to put all the emotions zipping around underneath my skin.
The problem is there is nothing and no one who meets that criteria because of who I am, or rather, who my husband is.
There are no sacred spaces for me anymore, and as long as I’m attached to Aubrey, that will always be the case.
It’s infuriating really. He has bunkers, situations rooms, offices with armed guards and bullet proofed vehicles.
Every space he exists in is fortified while I remain vulnerable to him and the rest of the world.
A visible target with nowhere to privately lick my wounds and safely plot a way to get my life, career and men back.
The door clicks shut seconds after Monique’s departure, bathing the room in blessed silence that stops me in my tracks.
I look around the space—my space, the place I’ve built my dreams and forged my legacy in the tech space—and wonder why the hell it never occurred to me that everything I want in the way of privacy and security exists right here in this building I was prepared to give up just moments ago.
Unsteady feet carry me back to my desk, and I sink into the chair with hope swelling in my chest. Culture Code isn’t a break from from my life as the First Lady of the United States of America.
It’s the key to being free of the title and the man attached to it forever.