2.0 #3
"Sure you have." He finally lowered into the chair, folding one ankle over his knee. "But don't sell yourself short. Pennsylvania's a tough climb. Your father laid the groundwork, sure, but legacy will only get you so far. You had to show up, and you did. You delivered."
I let the words hang. This wasn't praise-it was set-up.
"What brings you by, Bryan?"
He chuckled, low, like we both knew the dance. "Straight to it. I respect that." He leaned forward, forearms braced on his knees. "I'm running."
I didn't move. Didn't blink. Just waited.
"For president," he added, like I needed the clarification.
Of course he was. He'd been circling for years, building the machine, waiting for the right moment. Everyone knew it.
"You'll announce soon?" I asked.
He nodded once. "Next month. Quiet rollout first-closed-door with donors, endorsements lined up, then we take it public. Clean. Controlled." He paused. "And I want you with me."
The words dropped like lead between us.
"With you how?"
"As my vice president."
The silence stretched. I let it.
Bryan studied me, blue-gray eyes steady.
"You've got what I don't, Brooks. You're young. You've got reach with voters who'll never buy me as more than establishment. You're clean-cut but not soft, pedigreed but not out of touch. You speak well, you look the part, and you've proven you can win a state most people only drive through.
You balance me."
Balance. A polite way of saying prop.
"And what do you get?" I asked, voice even.
He smiled, sharp. "The White House in eight years. If you want it."
I looked down at my hands, at the faint red crease the glass had left in my palm. Eight years. Four in his shadow, four after. Or longer, depending on how long I let this machine keep eating me alive.
"You're asking a lot," I said.
"I'm offering more." His voice softened, but not his eyes. "I've known you since you were a kid. I watched your father build this path. I know what it means to you, even if you pretend otherwise."
I met his gaze finally. "And what if I say no?"
He leaned back, unruffled. "Then you'll keep doing good work here. Pennsylvania will love you for it. But don't kid yourself-opportunities like this don't wait around. The machine moves with or without you."
There it was. The hook, the threat, the choice that wasn't really a choice.
I thought of Margot-her robe slipping down her shoulders, her touch cold as glass. I thought of the nights I drowned in bourbon just to sleep. I thought of a house in New Jersey four years gone, of laughter I hadn't heard since.
And then I shut the door on all of it.
"I'll think about it," I said.
Bryan smiled like he'd already won. "That's all I ask. We'll talk again soon."
He stood, straightened his jacket, and offered his hand. I shook it. His grip was strong. Mine was steady.
When the door closed behind him, the silence came back heavier than before.
I sat there a long time, staring at the papers on my desk that suddenly felt like stage props. My reflection in the window looked like a man already wearing chains.
The drive back to the penthouse felt longer than it should have. Rain had started somewhere on the turnpike, thin streaks dragging down the windshield, and Monte's wipers kept time with my pulse. I didn't say a word the whole ride, and Monte didn't ask. He never did.
When we pulled into the driveway, the house loomed quiet against the dark sky. Margot's car wasn't there. Relief uncoiled in my chest before I could stop it.
"Take the night," I told Monte as I stepped out.
"You sure, sir?"
"Yeah. Go home."
He gave me a nod, and I watched the taillights fade down the drive before I keyed in through the side door.
Inside, the silence was thick. No perfume trailing through the hall, no heels clicking across marble, no forced brightness waiting at the kitchen island. Just space. Finally.
I shed the suit in the bedroom, tie first, then jacket, then the shirt that clung to me like it carried the whole day's weight. The shower was scalding by the time I stepped in, steam blurring the glass.
I braced my hands against the tile and let the water hit the back of my neck.
My mind replayed the afternoon on a loop-Bryan's calm smile, the way he'd said White House in eight years like it was a gift wrapped just for me.
My father's voice echoed in it even though he hadn't spoken yet: Legacy. Duty. Don't waste what we built.
I shut my eyes and tilted my head back, letting the water drown it all for a second.
Of course, it didn't last.
The phone on the vanity buzzed loud enough to cut through the hiss of the water. I didn't have to check the screen to know who it was.
I cursed under my breath, shut the water off, and dragged a towel over myself before swiping it open.
"Dad."
"Brooks," his voice came, even and commanding, like he was still running boardrooms instead of pretending to enjoy retirement. "You met with Bryan today."
It wasn't a question.
"I did."
"And?"
I sat on the edge of the bed, towel slung low on my hips, water dripping down my temples. "He wants me as his VP."
Silence on the other end, but I could picture him-leaning back in his leather chair, that small satisfied nod he always gave when the world bent the way he expected.
"Good," he said finally. "That's what we were waiting for."
I exhaled, slow. "We?"
"You don't get here alone, son. Everything we've done has been for this. Bryan respects you. He respects the Whitmore name. He wouldn't risk this campaign without knowing you'd carry it. You'll take it."
I gritted my teeth. "I told him I'd think about it."
"You don't need to think." His voice sharpened, cutting through any pause I might've tried to wedge in. "You'll accept. Publicly when the time is right. Privately, immediately. This is history opening a door for you. Don't be foolish enough to hesitate."
I rubbed a hand over my face, the towel damp against my skin. "Dad-"
"Do you understand what this means?" he snapped, louder now.
"The Vice Presidency, Brooks. National stage. You've already proven you can carry a state. Now you'll prove you can carry a country. You'll be in every living room, every headline. And when Bryan steps aside, the White House is yours. That's the path we laid for you."
We. We. We. The word grated like sandpaper.
I forced my voice steady. "What if I'm not sure I want that?"
The silence this time was colder.
"Not sure?" he repeated, his tone lethal in its quiet. "Don't ever say that again. You think men like us get to pick and choose? You think legacy is optional? Everything I built, everything your mother stood beside me for-you'd throw it away because you're suddenly not sure?"
The old ache twisted low in my chest. I was thirty-one years old, but in that moment I felt twelve again, standing in his study with my hands clenched behind my back, waiting for his disappointment to land.
"I'm not throwing anything away," I said tightly.
"Then prove it." His voice softened, but it was worse that way. "You'll call Bryan tomorrow. You'll tell him you're in. You'll smile for the cameras when it's time. And you'll remember who you are while you do it."
I closed my eyes, every muscle in my body screaming to fight, to push back, to say no. But the words never made it past my throat. They never had.
"Yes, sir," I heard myself say.
There was satisfaction in his silence, the kind that confirmed I'd fallen back in line.
"Good man," he said. "Don't make me repeat myself again."
The line went dead.
I stared at the phone until the screen dimmed, the reflection of my own face staring back. Water dripped down my collarbone, cooling into the silence of the room.
I wanted another drink. I wanted ten.
Instead, I stood, dropped the towel, and went back to the shower. The water scalded again, but this time it didn't burn enough to clean anything off.