6.0
The whiskey burned all the way down, sharper than it had the night before. I didn't bother with a glass this morning-just the bottle, sweating on the coffee table, waiting for me to lift it again.
The sun wasn't even high yet. Pale light stretched across the floor-to-ceiling windows, washing over the leather couch I'd crashed on instead of my bed. My head was heavy, shirt twisted, throat raw. Somewhere upstairs, Margot was still asleep, probably curled into silk. Perfect. Untouched.
Me? I hadn't slept at all.
Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Bryan's grin. The firm clasp of his hand when I told him yes. The flashbulbs I knew were coming tomorrow when the country heard the news. Vice President Whitmore. My father's wet dream. My nightmare.
I rubbed the heel of my hand over my eyes, but it didn't scrub anything away. The living room smelled faintly of leather, faintly of last night's liquor. My tie from yesterday was still crumpled on the floor.
The phone buzzed on the table. I ignored it. Took another pull.
It buzzed again. Louder this time, echoing in the silence.
I grabbed it, squinting at the screen. My father's name. Of course.
"Yeah."
"You sound like shit," my father said, voice already sharpened. "Don't tell me you're drinking at this hour."
I let out a low laugh, no humor in it. "At this hour, yesterday, tomorrow. Take your pick."
"Brooks." His tone snapped like a whip. "This is serious. Bryan's people called me again. They're waiting for you to lock in tomorrow's announcement. Do you understand how catastrophic it looks for you to be dragging your feet?"
I swirled the bottle slow, watching the amber catch what little light came through the glass. "You think I don't know what's on the calendar?"
"You don't act like it."
That lit something in me. My jaw flexed as I leaned forward, elbows heavy on my knees. "Don't mistake silence for stupidity. I've been carrying this circus for months. Shaking hands, smiling for your friends, playing the son you wanted."
"You accepted the position," he shot back. "That means commitment. That means showing up sober. Disciplined. Presentable."
"I'm not one of your damn soldiers." My voice cut sharper than I meant, but I didn't pull it back.
"You're my son," he barked. "And a Whitmore. That means something."
The word Whitmore dropped like a stone between us. Heavy. Cold.
I let it hang, let it echo in the quiet apartment. Then I tipped the bottle back, swallowed slow, and set it down hard enough to rattle against the wood.
"Fuck being a Whitmore." My tone was low, even, the kind of calm that carried weight. "I've been living under that name like it was scripture. You think that's loyalty. What it really is? Prison."
"Watch yourself."
"No." My laugh came sharp, bitter. "I've been watching myself my whole damn life. Every word, every step, every look-measured, managed, polished so you wouldn't tear me down in front of the cameras. And I'm done with it."
Silence stretched, tight enough to snap. I could hear him breathing on the other end, heavy and controlled.
"You'll be there tomorrow," he said finally, voice hard as stone. "Sober. Shined. Smiling. Because that's what this family demands."
I leaned back, let the leather couch creak under me. My hand tightened once on the bottle before I shoved it away.
"I'll be there because I choose to be. Don't get it twisted."
"You ungrateful-"
"Save it." My voice sliced clean through his. "I'll stand on that stage tomorrow. I'll play the part. But it won't be for you. It won't ever be for you again."
The line went dead quiet. Then a sharp click. He hung up.
I stared at the phone, chest steady, no rush of regret, no backpedal. Just that heavy calm that comes when you've finally stopped pretending.
The whiskey bottle sat within reach, catching the morning light, almost daring me. I didn't grab it this time. Not right away.
I leaned back instead, head tipped against the couch, eyes tracing the ceiling I suddenly hated. Four years ago, I might've felt nervous. Maybe guilty. Now I just felt tired. Tired of being their son before being my own man.
Tomorrow, I'd shine. Tomorrow, I'd stand under the lights, shake Bryan's hand, and smile for the cameras like I believed in all of it.
The silence after the call wasn't peace. It was heavy. Like the walls were holding their breath.
I let the phone drop to the couch, rubbed at my jaw, then reached for the bottle again. The whiskey went down hotter this time, coating my throat until my eyes watered. I welcomed the sting. It felt better than the hollow ache in my chest.
For a long minute, I just sat there. Elbows on my knees, head bowed, the city spilling pale light through the glass like it didn't know or care that my life had just been mapped out for me again.
Vice President Whitmore. The kind of title people would kill for.
The kind of title my father would kill me for walking away from.
I tipped the bottle, watching the liquid slosh. I wasn't drunk enough yet, but I was close.
A creak on the stairs pulled my head up. Soft. Barely there. Then the faint slide of silk against skin.
Of course.
Margot appeared in the doorway, one hand braced against the frame, the other adjusting the belt of her robe like she wanted me to notice she hadn't tied it all the way.
Blonde hair falling in waves down her shoulders, blue eyes bright even in the muted light.
Every inch of her polished, deliberate, stunning.
And I felt nothing.
"Brooks," she said softly, like she was easing into the room instead of announcing herself. "You're up early."
"Didn't sleep," I muttered, leaning back against the couch, bottle heavy in my grip.
She tilted her head, smile small, testing. "Big day tomorrow. I suppose that explains it."
I didn't answer. Just took another swallow, slow enough that her eyes followed the movement.
Her bare feet padded against the hardwood as she crossed the room, silk fluttering around her thighs. The robe slid a little lower on her shoulder when she leaned against the arm of the couch, close enough that I could smell her perfume. Sweet. Expensive. Cloying.
"You should be resting," she murmured. "You'll want to look your best." Her fingers brushed the back of my neck, nails grazing lightly. "You always do."
I kept my gaze on the glass wall instead of her face. "What do you want, Margot?"
She laughed under her breath, soft and practiced. "Maybe I just want to keep my husband company."
The word husband hit like a dull weight. Not sharp. Not new. Just heavy.
Her hand slid lower, trailing along my shoulder, down my chest. I didn't move. Didn't lean into it. Didn't push her away. Just let it happen, the same way I let everything happen lately.
"You're tense," she said, smile widening as if she'd won something. She leaned closer, robe parting enough to bare her chest.
The whiskey burned in my stomach. Her lips brushed my jaw. I didn't close my eyes.
She lowered herself between my knees, silk pooling on the floor, blonde hair spilling forward. And I sat there, bottle still in my hand, letting her do what she came down here to do.
The whiskey left me hollow. Even after Margot slipped back upstairs, silk dragging across the floor like a punctuation mark I hadn't asked for, the emptiness stayed.
By the time the sun climbed higher, I was still on the couch, bottle half-drained, tie from yesterday tangled at my feet.
The city moved on outside, sharp and alive, while I sat in the same shirt, skin sticky with sweat, thinking about everything I'd said to my father and nothing I'd done to change a damn thing.
Sleep never came. Only the dull ache of whiskey and the echo of his voice: You'll be there tomorrow. Sober. Shined. Smiling.
Tomorrow was now today.
By early afternoon, the apartment buzzed with a different kind of noise.
The staff had arrived-stylists, aides, the quiet hum of people moving in practiced rhythms.
Steam from the shower curled into the bathroom while I stood at the mirror, toothbrush hanging from my mouth, eyes bloodshot, jaw rough with stubble I hadn't bothered to shave the night before.
The pounding in my head hadn't eased since I left the couch. Every light felt too bright, every sound too sharp. Whiskey clung to me like a second skin.
"Senator, we'll need you in the suit within the hour," Jenna's voice called from down the hall. Efficient. No-nonsense. The same as always.
I spat, rinsed, leaned on the sink for a long second, watching the water swirl down the drain. The mirror didn't lie. Hungover. Hollow-eyed. About to step onto a stage big enough to change everything.
I dried my face, straightened, forced my shoulders back. That part, at least, came easy-years of practice.
The knock on the bathroom door was softer this time. Margot.
"Brooks?" she called, voice syrup-sweet. "They brought your tie options up. I'll lay them out."
Her tone was calm, supportive even, like last night hadn't happened. Like she hadn't slipped to her knees in the dark just to fill the silence.
I closed my eyes, breathed deep, and told myself what I always did: One more day. One more stage. One more show.
And when I opened them, the man in the mirror was already wearing the mask.
The suite had turned into a staging ground. Jackets draped over chairs, garment bags unzipped, ties laid out like soldiers waiting to be chosen. Steamers hissed in the corner, and two stylists moved with quiet efficiency, fussing with cuffs and shoes as though one wrinkle could undo a candidacy.
I sat there in the middle of it all, a glass of water sweating in my hand, wishing it were whiskey.
"Try the charcoal," one of them said, holding up a suit.
"Blue photographs better," the other countered.
I didn't care. The cameras would see whatever mask I put on, not the color of the fabric. Still, I let them tug me into the navy, let them press a shirt crisp against my chest, button after button closing me in.