2.0
The coffee machine hummed, steam curling against the backsplash, filling the kitchen with the sharp scent of dark roast.
I leaned on the counter, sleeves rolled to my elbows, tie loose at my throat.
The early light poured through the wide kitchen windows, washing me in gray.
My reflection in the glass looked older than thirty-two-harsher angles, shadows under the eyes, the kind whiskey left behind after too many nights.
The mug was hot in my hands, but it did nothing for the chill that had settled in me lately. My jaw ached from clenching. My temples pulsed from another night of drinking. But I stood the way I always did: tall, shoulders squared, every inch of me carved for optics.
"Good morning."
Her voice broke the quiet like a note too sweet to be real.
Margot padded in on bare feet, silk robe loose around her body.
Champagne-colored, tied haphazardly at the waist, the top left open just enough for a tease.
She'd been born for moments like this-blonde hair falling straight down her back, eyes the kind of piercing blue magazines loved to photograph.
She was objectively beautiful, the kind of woman men envied me for.
But beauty didn't stir a thing in me anymore. If it ever had.
She poured herself water, posture practiced, like even the tilt of a glass was calculated. "Already working?"
I didn't lift my eyes from the paper spread in front of me, though I hadn't read a line of it. "Something like that."
She crossed the kitchen, perfume drifting in her wake. Light, floral, cloying against the sharper bite of coffee. Her hand slid over my shoulder, nails grazing the back of my neck.
"You work too much, Brooks," she murmured, leaning down just enough for her breath to ghost my skin. "Maybe you should let yourself relax."
I set the mug down harder than I meant to, the sound sharp against marble. "Not now."
She laughed lightly, a sound rehearsed. "You always say that."
"Because I always mean it."
Her fingers traced down my shirt, slow, deliberate. She stepped in front of me, robe parting as she tugged the sash loose. The silk slipped off her shoulders, pooling at her elbows until her chest was bare. She straightened, chin lifted, daring me to look, daring me to react.
I didn't.
Her body was flawless, sculpted by trainers and polished by wealth. But desire had nothing to do with symmetry. I felt nothing. Not even pity.
"You married me," she said, voice softer now, almost pleading. "Don't I deserve more than being ignored every morning?"
I finally looked up. My height dwarfed her; she barely came to my collarbone. Her blue eyes searched my face like she could still find the man she thought she'd won.
"What you deserve," I said evenly, "is a husband who actually wants this." I gestured to her exposed body, to the robe hanging limp. "And that's not me."
Her mouth trembled before she caught it, curving her lips into another careful smile. "You make it sound like I tricked you."
"You didn't have to. My father made sure of that."
Her nostrils flared, chest rising as she sucked in a sharp breath. She stepped closer, pressing against me, her hand curling at the back of my neck. She tilted her face up, lips grazing my jaw, a kiss meant to soften me, to remind me.
I gripped her wrist gently but firmly, peeling her hand away. "Don't."
Something flickered in her expression then-hurt, anger, humiliation. She covered it with another smirk, tilting her head like she hadn't just been pushed away. "Careful, Brooks. If people knew how cold you really were with me..."
I cut her off. "They already do. They just don't say it."
Her laugh was sharp this time, brittle around the edges. "You think you can talk to me like this forever? You think I'll just keep smiling for the cameras while you drown yourself in bourbon every night?"
I stood, chair scraping back. Towering over her, I watched her robe slip further down her arms. She held her ground, but her eyes flickered.
"I think you'll do whatever it takes to keep this marriage intact," I said quietly. "Because it gives you everything you've ever wanted. My name. My father's approval. The stage."
"And what do you get?" she snapped.
I leaned in, close enough that her perfume burned. "A cage."
Her jaw clenched, throat working like she had more to say, but she didn't. She turned, robe trailing, chest still bare as she walked out. Her silhouette vanished down the hall, leaving silence heavier than before.
I exhaled, dragging a hand down my face.
On paper, we were perfect-America's golden couple. In reality, I couldn't even stomach the thought of her lips on mine.
The coffee in my mug had gone cold.
The slam of her heels faded down the hallway, silk trailing like a ghost in her wake. I stood there in the kitchen, jaw locked, staring into the cold coffee I no longer wanted.
This was marriage. A set piece. A cage dressed up in silk and pearls. Margot knew it, and so did I. But outside these walls, we didn't get the luxury of honesty.
By the time the motorcade pulled up in front of the Capitol annex, the performance had already begun.
She was at my side in a pressed dress the color of sky, diamonds in her ears, smile gleaming like it had been rehearsed since birth.
You'd never know she'd walked out of our kitchen an hour ago with her robe half-off and rage burning her throat.
Hand in hand, we stepped out of the car. Flashbulbs erupted, reporters shouting questions we'd never answer. Margot's fingers tightened around mine, nails pressing half-moons into my skin, and she leaned just close enough for the cameras to catch the whisper.
"Smile, Brooks."
And I did.
Because if there was one thing I'd learned in three years of this marriage, it was that in public, silence wasn't safety. Optics were.
They had me out the door in under twenty minutes.
Shower. Suit. Navy, single-breasted. White shirt. Tie the color of wet slate. Cufflinks I didn't pick. The same swift choreography it always was: Monte at the elevator, Margot trailing in a cream sheath and pearls, Jenna already emailing from the curb.
By the time the motorcade cleared our block, I'd put the morning where it belonged-behind a door.
Harrisburg looked washed out under a flat sky.
Cameras were waiting anyway. They always were.
Two local affiliates, a freelancer, someone with a YouTube mic and too much zeal.
Monte opened my door and I stepped into the flash.
Margot slid out after me like smoke-hair perfect, blue eyes lit up for show. She took my arm without asking.
"Smile," she breathed, the corner of her mouth barely moving.
I did. A politician's smile. Quick, neat, no teeth.
"Senator Whitmore-quick word?" a reporter called. "Update on your infrastructure package?"
"Later this week," I said, moving. "We're close."
Margot leaned subtly into me so the cameras could frame us together. Her hand rested high on my bicep-territorial, practiced. I didn't shake it off. That was the deal: in public, the costume stayed on.
Inside, the marble swallowed the noise. A state trooper nodded. We took the side elevator up to the annex where my office sat tucked behind three secured doors and a reception desk that always smelled faintly like printer toner.
Jenna was already standing with a tablet and a stack of folders.
Brown blazer, dark slacks, no wasted movement.
"Morning. We're tight. Commerce prep at nine. Senator Carlisle's office is pushing to move your remarks earlier. Priya flagged language on the fentanyl bill that'll hit your base wrong if you don't soften it. And you've got Gladwyne donors at six unless you want me to kill it."
"Kill it," I said.
Jenna didn't blink. "Done."
Margot drifted a step behind us like a perfume ad, smiling at staff, making names feel seen because she had a preternatural memory for faces. "Jenna," she said, warm but cool. "You look sharp. That color is perfect on you."
"Thanks," Jenna said, sharp smile back, already pivoting. "Evan's in your office with talking points, Senator. We need to lock your tone for Carlisle. He'll push you to sound celebratory on the energy jobs number-don't. Keep it sober, 'more work to do.'"
I nodded and kept moving. That's what I was good at now: moving through days like this one, saying the right words in the right order, inhabiting the mold my last name cut for me.
My office door clicked shut behind us and the noise dropped again. Dark wood, Pennsylvania maps on the wall, a framed photo of me shaking a mayor's hand at a ribbon-cutting. No family photo. No one noticed anymore.
Evan-the comms lead-was pacing by the window, tie already loosened.
"Morning. Quick beats. Infrastructure: 'common-sense investments, bipartisan returns, shovel-ready projects that don't mortgage our kids.' Fentanyl: compassion first, then enforcement. Leave the word 'crisis' to advocates; you say 'epidemic,' it polls better in the suburbs.
If Carlisle tries to box you in on safe injection sites, pivot to 'evidence-based' and pep in the line about recovery workforce."
"Good," I said, taking the binder. I scanned the bullets and felt nothing. The muscle still worked even when the nerve was dead.
Margot slid into a chair without sitting all the way, posture like a ballet teacher. "What time are you done?" she asked no one in particular.
"Schedule shows a window at four," Jenna said. It wasn't an invitation.
"Lovely," Margot said, unbothered. "I'll be at the museum board lunch and then I'll swing by the plaza. The press wants a shot of us with that new sculpture."
"Fine," I said.
She crossed one leg over the other, cream fabric cutting a clean line against tanned skin.
She had a face that made donors open their checkbooks and interns hold their breath-impossible to ignore, deliberately designed not to be.
Blonde. Blue eyes so clear they read as bright even in bad lighting.
Polished within an inch. She knew her job and played it flawlessly.
If I'd loved her, it would have been easy.