28.0
I got home later than I meant to.
I'd planned to sleep at Amira's again, but I had an early block on the calendar—policy brief at nine, debate lines at ten—and I told myself the responsible thing was to go back to the penthouse, set an alarm, pretend I knew how to be a person with a routine.
Margot was at the kitchen island with a mug cupped in both hands, hair twisted up, reading something on her phone. Barefoot. Silk pajama set. When she lifted her eyes, it wasn't a fight she handed me. It was a small, practiced smile.
"Hey," she said. "How are you?"
"I'm fine." I dropped my keys in the tray, the sound too loud in the room. "Long day."
She nodded, like she was checking off a box. "You've had a lot of those."
We didn't move toward each other. We didn't move away. Just hung there in the neutral space we'd been living in for months.
She set the mug down. "Lunch with your parents tomorrow. Don't be late."
Not an ask. A placement.
I leaned a hip against the counter. "Since when?"
"Since your mother texted me an hour ago." She tilted the phone, as if I needed proof. "One o'clock."
My jaw worked. "I'll be there."
"Good," she said, almost gentle.
She rinsed her cup, left it in the rack. No follow-up. No dig. Distant, but kind. It should have felt like a relief. It didn't.
I stood there alone after she disappeared up the stairs, watching my reflection bend in the black glass of the oven door. I should have been thinking about the debate. Instead, I was replaying the conversation I'd promised myself I'd have with my parents—words I'd practiced and never used.
I need to tell you something.
Her name is Alina.
The sentences sounded clean in my head. They never survived out loud.
In the guest bedroom, I set an alarm I didn't trust, plugged in a phone I hadn't wanted, and lay on top of the covers staring at the ceiling. Somewhere between the vents and the hum of the elevator shaft, I started writing a script for tomorrow that didn't end with anyone bleeding.
Maybe they just want to talk logistics, I told myself. Living in D.C. if we win. A schedule. A calendar with no time in it.
Maybe.
I closed my eyes and saw Amira's living room instead. The cake on the coffee table, the red ribbon Alina tied too tight around the gift bag, the quiet after we blew out the candles.
I'd been avoiding this conversation for Amire, but if not now, when? I knew Amira didn't feel comfortable with me saying anything to them yet and I respect it, but I didn't want to treat them like a secret anymore.
Sleep didn't come. Morning did.
The next morning, I was at the office before sunrise.
The city still had that gray film over it—pre-coffee, pre-noise, pre-everything. The quiet part of the day when you can almost pretend the world isn't waiting to devour you whole.
My desk looked like it had multiplied in my absence. Two folders from Jenna marked urgent, a color-coded debate prep binder, three unopened envelopes from the campaign's comms director. I loosened my tie, set my coffee down, and told myself I'd get through half before noon.
My phone buzzed.
I frowned. Wants to see him too? That never happened—unless it was Christmas and they were handing out bonus checks.
I typed back.
A few minutes later, Monte knocked on my door. "You think it's about the move?" he asked, stepping in.
"Maybe," I said. "If Bryan wins, D.C. becomes home base. They'll want to talk about security."
Monte grinned. "And here I thought they just missed you."
"Yeah," I said dryly, closing the folder. "That's never been their brand."
We left the office and later drove in silence. The motorcade-issue SUV cut through downtown traffic like the world owed it space. I scrolled through my phone out of habit—Bryan's name flooding every headline, every push notification.
Monte glanced over. "You don't think them wanting to see me is anything I should be worried about?"
"Yeah," I said automatically. Then, "You're fine don't worry. I'm sure it's just about the potential move."
By the time we pulled into my parents' driveway, I'd convinced myself this would be another polished lunch—ten minutes of small talk, twenty of my father monologuing about campaign strategy, five of my mother pretending to care about my schedule.
Monte cut the engine. "Should I wait out here?"
"Yeah," I said. "They'll probably have me tell you when to come in."
He nodded.
I stepped out into the manicured quiet of my childhood street. The house looked the same—brick, symmetrical, soulless. The kind of place that never learned to breathe.
Inside, the air smelled faintly of lemon polish and control.
My mother's voice floated from the dining room. "Brooks."
I followed it in. Margot was already seated beside her, in pale blue silk, legs crossed, smile poised just shy of smug. My father was at the head of the table, a newspaper folded beside his plate like a prop.
"Nice of you to make it," he said.
"Nice of you to invite me," I replied, taking the empty chair.
Lunch unfolded like choreography—small talk, campaign chatter, the safe kind of politics families use instead of intimacy. I waited for the part where they said why I was really there.
Margot sat between my parents, pouring wine she probably didn't plan to drink. Her voice carried that soft, performative charm she used for fundraisers and interviews — every laugh half a beat late, every gesture calculated to seem effortless.
My mother talked about the foundation's gala next month. My father talked about polling margins in swing states. Margot added little anecdotes about "our favorite senator" like she was auditioning for sainthood.
I let them talk.
Mostly I just pushed my food around, nodding when I had to, offering the occasional "That's great" or "We'll see how the things shake out."
Halfway through, Margot reached for my glass, refilling it without asking. "You should eat," she said lightly. "You look tired."
I didn't bother replying.
It was all choreography — the kind of practiced civility my family treated like religion. Forks moved in sync. Smiles landed on cue. No one ever raised their voice; they just sharpened their words until they cut without sound.
I waited for the moment. The real reason I was there.
It didn't come with the wine or the entrée.
The meal stretched. My mother asked about policy numbers she'd seen on TV. My father shifted to endorsements. Margot offered commentary that sounded helpful but wasn't, and I played along, the good son, the good senator, the practiced smile.
Only, something about it all felt off. The pauses were a little too long. The smiles a little too rehearsed. The way my mother kept glancing toward my father like she was waiting for a cue.
Margot twirled her fork between her fingers. "Brooks, you should see the event list for the next few weeks. Bryan's scheduling meetings like he's already in the White House."
"He's always been optimistic," I said.
"He's always been calculating," my father corrected, not unkindly. "Just like you."
That earned a low hum from my mother. "You both learned from the best."
Margot laughed again — just enough to fill the space, not enough to sound genuine.
By the time dessert came, I'd almost convinced myself I was imagining the tension. The waiter cleared the plates, replaced them with espresso cups, and the conversation dipped into that strange, heavy lull my family specialized in — the kind that meant something was coming.
My mother dabbed at the corner of her mouth with a napkin, her movements too delicate, too deliberate. Then she looked up, smile poised.
My mother dabbed the corner of her mouth with a napkin, then looked at me. "Let's go out into the back. It's such a nice day. Is Monte waiting outside?"
"Yeah," I said slowly.
"Have him come in."
My stomach dropped a little. "Why did you guys want to speak with him?"
She smiled that soft, deliberate smile I'd grown up hating. "Your father wants to speak with him."
I texted Monte under the table.
He glanced at me, brow furrowed. What is this?
I didn't answer — because that's when I saw the table.
A dozen glossy photographs laid out side by side, corners overlapping, sunlight gleaming off them like a spotlight.
And there we were.
Me. Amira. Alina.
My entire secret life printed in perfect color.
There was one from the Amira's backyard— Alina laughing, mid-spin, my hand steadying her.
One at Amira's mother house in New York, the three of us walking down the sidewalk, my jacket draped over her shoulders.
Another from a few nights ago, me kissing her outside her door.
Different days, different clothes — proof this wasn't a one-time slip.
"—What the fuck is this?" I asked, the words out before I could stop them.
"Watch your tone," my father said calmly, like he was talking to a staffer.
"No," I said, stepping closer. "What is this? You've got people following me now?"
He didn't flinch. "Margot came to us concerned," he said evenly, gesturing toward her. "She told us you'd been... distracted. Acting erratic. We thought it best to confirm."
Margot's hands were folded neatly in her lap. Not a hint of guilt. Just that same composed, sympathetic expression she wore in interviews. "I only wanted to protect you," she said softly.
I laughed — sharp and humorless. "Protect me? You hired someone to stalk me."
My mother cut in, her voice cool. "Don't be dramatic, Brooks. We were worried. This woman—" she gestured toward the photos "—has caused nothing but trouble for you since the day she showed up."
My jaw clenched. "Her name is Amira and you know that."
She waved a hand, dismissive. "Whatever she's calling herself now. We just didn't want to see you jeopardize everything you've worked hard for. Everything we've built for you."
"Everything you've built for yourselves," I shot back. "Don't pretend any of this has ever been about me."
My father's voice sharpened. "Don't take that tone with your mother."