22.0 #2
When I stepped inside, the smell of Margot's perfume hit first — sharp, expensive, invasive.
She was by the mirror, already dressed. Hair perfect, lipstick precise. The kind of composure that could cut through steel.
"You're late," she said, not looking at me. "Guess who gets to show up alone again to save face yet again?"
Her heels clicked against the floor as she crossed the room, every step measured.
"Margot—"
"Don't." She grabbed her clutch, turned on her heel. "Where the fuck have you been lately?" she said, turning before I could even take my jacket off. "Every day you're suddenly driving yourself around to God knows where. Probably some whore house club in downtown Philly I know that's your thing."
I blinked once, steady. "If I wanted that kind of company, I'd just stay here."
"Funny," she snapped. "You know what? I don't even care where you've been. Just make sure you're hiding your tracks."
"Excuse me?"
"You heard me." Her tone sharpened. "You want to play mysterious? Fine. Just don't be sloppy about it."
A second later, the door opened again. She stepped back in just long enough to throw me a look sharp enough to draw blood.
"You better be there within the hour," she said, voice low and precise. "Don't make me regret defending you."
Then she was gone again — this time for real. The echo of her heels trailed off down the hall.
I let out a breath I didn't realize I'd been holding and looked around the penthouse — all glass and polish, no warmth.
It felt sterile. Like a showroom. Like nothing I actually lived in.
I loosened my tie, staring at my reflection in the dark window — the same suit, the same face, but the man inside it didn't feel like me anymore.
The scent of Margot's perfume lingered in the air, sweet and suffocating, and I found myself wishing it still smelled like Amira's house.
The DeLucas' dining room was a museum of power—crystal light, low laughter, the dull gleam of old money pretending to be charm. Margot's hand rested neatly on my arm, fingers perfectly placed for the photos, smile fixed for the audience.
I knew the rhythm by heart. The waiters moved like choreography. The laughter rose and fell at predictable beats. I'd done a hundred of these dinners before—each one more hollow than the last.
But tonight, it was worse.
Because I couldn't stop thinking about a living room scattered with crayons.
"Brooks," Cyrus DeLuca said from across the table, fork poised midair. "Bryan tells me the polling numbers in Georgia are tightening. You worried?"
I gave him the polished answer I'd been giving for months. "We expected that. Early polls tend to balance out once the debates start."
He nodded, satisfied enough to move on. Margot turned her face toward me, smiling just wide enough for the donors to see. "He never worries," she said, hand brushing my sleeve like punctuation. "That's one of the things I admire most."
I smiled back, the kind I'd learned from my father—measured, quiet, unconvincing.
Once, I'd been good at this. When I was running for Senate, I'd sat through endless nights like this one. I could fake laughter, shake hands, quote numbers, make every person in the room believe they mattered.
But lately, pretending felt like swallowing glass.
The fork in my hand felt too heavy. The noise too sharp. Every word Margot said sounded rehearsed, and maybe that's because it was.
I checked my phone under the table. Monte's last message still sat at the top of the screen. Be careful. People are watching.
They always were.
I glanced around the table, catching my reflection in the polished silver of a serving tray—perfect suit, perfect posture, empty eyes.
When the plates changed and the laughter swelled again, I leaned back in my chair and let my phone slide into my lap. My thumb hovered before I typed:
Something in my chest cracked open.
I zoomed in on the photo, the edges of the room blurring away. For a second, I could almost hear the sound of her laugh over the clinking of glassware and polite political chatter.
Margot touched my wrist lightly. "You okay?" she asked, still smiling at the table.
I forced a small nod. "Just fine."
But I wasn't.
Because somewhere between the speeches and the champagne, between the press and the performance, I'd stopped knowing which life was the act and which one wasn't.
I slipped the phone back into my pocket, the image still glowing in my mind, and took another sip of wine that didn't taste like anything.
The dinner wound down the way they all did—slowly, in waves of laughter and fake goodbyes. The clink of glassware faded to polite chatter as donors trickled out onto the DeLucas' cobblestone drive, their drivers idling under the soft yellow lights.
Margot stood a few feet away, scrolling on her phone, her clutch tucked under one arm. The silver of her dress caught every passing flash of camera light, but her expression didn't change.
I watched her quietly.
There was a time when this—her, us—hadn't felt like performance. When we were just two people orbiting the same world, laughing at the same things.
We'd take trips with friends, stay up too late, talk about everything and nothing. Back then, she was selfish in the harmless kind of way—spoiled, sure, but still capable of warmth.
Now, standing under the marble arch of another fundraiser exit, I couldn't find that version of her anywhere.
She wasn't cruel. Not exactly. Just... empty in the same way all of us had learned to be. Maybe that was what bothered me most. That I didn't hate her. I hated what we'd both turned into.
She'd just leaned into it harder.
Her father's voice in her head, his approval the currency she measured everything with. And somewhere along the way, she stopped asking herself what she wanted.
I felt bad for her sometimes—for both of us, really—but mostly for how little I felt at all.
Monte pulled up, the familiar black sedan sliding to a stop in front of us. He stepped out, quick and professional, and opened the back door.
Margot slipped her phone into her clutch, still avoiding my eyes as she climbed in. The door shut softly behind her, the sound almost polite.
A moment later, the window slid down halfway. "You're not coming home?" she asked, her tone flat but sharp at the edges.
I shook my head. "I drove here. Thought I'd take a drive, clear my head a bit before heading back."
Her expression tightened—annoyance first, then something like exhaustion. "Right," she said, barely glancing at me. "Enjoy your drive."
The window rolled up before I could answer.
Monte gave me a small, knowing nod before getting in and pulling away, the taillights disappearing down the long stretch of road.
For a while, I just stood there. The air smelled like rain and roses and exhaust. Around me, the last of the guests said their goodbyes, laughter echoing faintly behind the gates.
Then I turned, hands in my pockets, and walked toward the garage.
My car sat alone under the dim light, quiet and waiting. I leaned against the door, thumb hovering over my phone before I typed the only thing I wanted to say.
I stared at the message for a second, then hit send.
The screen dimmed, leaving just my reflection—tired, rumpled, wearing someone else's life.
I started the car and pulled out of the driveway, headlights cutting through the empty stretch of road ahead. The city glowed faintly in the distance, a blur of amber and glass.
A notification popped up on the dash—her name lighting up the screen—but I didn't check to see if it said yes or no.
I was going either way.
By the time I pulled up outside her building, the clock on the dash read 10:47. Most of the windows were dark except hers, a soft gold square against the quiet street.
I killed the engine, sat there a moment just breathing, then got out and climbed the steps.
When the door opened, she was standing there in a pink pajama set, her hair in two loose braids that framed her face. The kind of domestic softness that shouldn't have undone me the way it did.
I couldn't help it—I smiled, slow and genuine, something tugging loose in my chest.
"Ready for bed?" I asked, reaching up to tug gently at one of the braids.
She tried not to smile, but failed. Her hand came up to swat mine away lightly, a small sway of movement that made the air between us hum.
"Brooks," she said, half a warning, half a laugh.
I grinned. "Just asking."
She shook her head, stepping aside to let me in. "Did you just ignore my message saying I was going to bed and you can come tomorrow?"
"Yes," I said, walking past her into the warmth of the apartment.
The door clicked shut behind us, soft as a secret.