36.0
Amira was still catching her breath when I slipped out of bed.
Her hair was fanned over the pillow, skin warm and flushed, one hand resting limply on her stomach like she didn't have the strength to move yet. The sheet had slipped low enough to make me look away for a second just so I wouldn't get distracted all over again.
I grabbed a cloth from the bathroom and wet it the came back to the bed.
She made a tiny noise — half–whine, half–laugh and dropped an arm over her face.
"Brooks, if you're trying to get me up..." she mumbled, voice lazy and ruined, "please don't."
I couldn't help smiling.
"I'm not trying to get you up," I said quietly, easing her thighs apart just enough to clean her gently.
Her arm slid off her face and she blinked up at me, eyes soft and heavy.
I kissed her knee, tossed the cloth aside, and ran a slow hand up her leg.
"Did you ask Tim about tonight?" I asked.
She exhaled, long and tired. "Yeah. He said he can take her. I'm dropping her off at four."
I glanced at the clock on the dresser. "It's almost two," I murmured. "That gives you enough time to drive to Philly and back."
She groaned dramatically, arm over her face again. "A two-hour drive there and back... I'm not getting back until, like, seven."
"I know." I leaned down and kissed her forehead. "That's why our dinner reservation isn't until nine."
Her eyes peeked out beneath her arm. "Nine?"
"You only turn—" I paused, smirk tugging when she glared, "—exactly your age—once."
She slapped my chest weakly. "You're leaving me on my birthday?" she teased.
I let my fingers drift down her side, slow. "Just for a few hours." I kissed her again — soft, lingering, an apology and a promise in one. "I've got a few things to handle."
"Work?" she guessed.
"It's almost election time there's a lot I have to do."
She narrowed her eyes suspiciously.
I kissed her once more — long enough to make her toes curl — then got out of bed before she could drag me back into it.
"Brooks..." she whined.
I chuckled, pulling on sweats.
"I'm going to take a shower," I told her, opening the bedroom door.
God, I loved her.
More than I had words for.
And today — she'd finally understand just how much.
By the time I grabbed my keys and stepped into the hallway, the house had settled into a deep calm — quiet, dark, hers.
It still surprised me how much it felt like home now.
Outside, the air had that late-afternoon chill, the kind that hinted at fall. I slipped into the driver's seat, started the engine, and exhaled slowly.
I had a two-part mission today.
One that required tying up loose ends I should've handled months ago.
I sent a quick text.
I turned out of the neighborhood.
New Jersey rolled by in familiar blurs — streets I used to walk as a kid, corners where I'd waited for rides to debates or fundraisers, houses where every porch reminded me of expectations I never asked for.
Funny how different it all felt now.
Like a place I'd outgrown without meaning to.
The closer I got to the destination, the quieter the car felt.
The quieter I felt.
The houses looked the same — manicured lawns, perfect hedges, front doors painted in colors chosen by interior designers.
I used to think it was peaceful.
Now all I saw was control.
Margot stepped outside.
Not dolled up. Not poised. Not styled within an inch of her life.
Black leggings. Oversized long-sleeve shirt. Hair twisted into a messy bun.
No makeup.
I'd lived with her for three years and never once seen her look like this.
She hesitated before walking to the passenger door.
Opened it. Slipped in.
Didn't say hi.
Didn't look at me.
Just crossed her arms and stared straight ahead like I was the one who dragged her here.
I let the silence sit for a moment. "Margot."
Nothing.
Not a blink.
Her jaw tightened, and she still didn't look at me.
Alright.
"I didn't come here to fight," I said. "But if you're not ready to have an actual conversation, there's no point in me being here."
Her head whipped toward me.
"I am ready to talk," she snapped — too fast. Too sharp. "I'm just—"
She broke off, blinking hard.
Then she exhaled, dropped her gaze, and the edges of her voice softened in a way I'd never heard from her before.
"Okay," she whispered. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. Let's... start over."
I nodded once.
She stared down at her hands. "This is weird."
"It doesn't have to be," I said quietly.
She gave a humorless little laugh. "Brooks, everything about us is weird."
Another silence.
Finally, she spoke. "I don't know what you want me to say."
I kept my voice even. "I'm here to clear the air and to apologize if I ever led you on. That wasn't my intention."
Her throat bobbed.
"You didn't lead me on," she murmured. "I... led myself on."
I let her continue.
She pulled in a shaky breath. "When everything happened — the breakup, the headlines, the engagement — I told myself I was justified in being angry. That I was owed something." She shook her head at herself. "And the truth is... I wasn't."
I watched her carefully.
Margot took another breath, voice barely above a whisper.
"The last few interviews I did?" Her eyes finally lifted to mine.
"That was all damage control. Not for me — for my father. For the business. For their reputation."
I stayed silent.
She swallowed hard. "It wasn't fair to you or her."
Her eyes flickered, guilt simmering behind them.
"Amira didn't deserve any of that," she said. "And neither did your daughter."
The admission landed heavy — unexpected.
She pushed a palm to her forehead. "I was so focused on... the image. On being the Vice President's wife. On what that title would mean for my family, for my father, for..." She grimaced. "For the version of me I built to survive their expectations."
Her voice dropped into something small.
"When it all disappeared, I realized I didn't know who I was without it."
The car went quiet.
Soft quiet. Real quiet.
Not the suffocating kind.
I nodded slowly. "I understand more than you think."
She let out a soft, sad laugh. "Because you were me. Before all of this. Before her."
I didn't correct her.
She looked at me then — really looked.
"I don't hate you, Brooks," she said softly. "I was hurt. Embarrassed. Losing myself and blaming you because it was easier than admitting I didn't know who I was."
Her eyes glistened.
Not dramatic.
Not performative.
Just human.
I exhaled. "I don't take offense to what you said on TV. I can handle whatever they throw at me."
Her lips trembled. "You shouldn't have had to."
"And I don't want us to keep living like we're enemies," I said. "There was a time when we were friends. I helped you when I could. You helped me more than once, too."
She blinked back a tear. "I know."
"We don't have to be best friends," I continued. "But we don't need to hate each other."
Silence.
Then she leaned back into the seat — shoulders sagging, face softening into something almost unrecognizable.
"I'm glad you're happy," she said quietly. "I mean that."
I nodded once.
She hesitated.
"Can I hug you?" she whispered.
I didn't answer.
I just leaned over.
She pulled back from the hug slowly, like she wasn't sure what to do with her hands now that they weren't holding on to something.
She wiped her eyes quickly, embarrassed. "Sorry. I—I didn't mean to melt down in your car."
"It's fine don't worry," I said gently.
She huffed a light laugh, more air than sound.
We sat for a moment in that quiet — not uncomfortable, not charged. Just... two people who had finally made a truce.
Margot looked out the windshield at her parents' house, then back at me.
Margot reached for the door handle but paused.
"Thank you for meeting me today," she added. "For not avoiding me. For... treating me like a person even though I couldn't have been worse of a person to you."
I exhaled slowly. "I hope you find something that actually makes you happy."
Her eyes softened. "I will. Eventually."
She opened the door halfway, then hesitated. "Take care of her," she said quietly. "Amira. And your daughter. Just... take care of them."
"I will," I said without hesitation.
"I know." She stepped out onto the sidewalk. "Goodbye, Brooks."
I nodded once. "Goodbye, Margot."
She closed the door gently — not slamming, not storming, just... accepting.
I watched her walk up the path, shoulders straighter than before, wiping her face with the sleeve of her shirt. She paused at the porch for a moment, inhaled deeply, then disappeared inside.
I shifted the car into drive before driving off.
I didn't look back.
But I didn't feel anger either.
Only relief.
The kind that leaves space for the life I'm building now.
The one I actually want.
I checked the time on the dash.
She'd be dropping Alina off with Tim soon.
My phone buzzed with a text.
Perfect.
The roads grew emptier as I turned into an industrial district just outside Short Hills — wide streets, new construction, glass buildings reflecting the sky like mirrors.
Then I pulled into a private lot beside a row of luxury commercial suites — tall windows, dark metal framing, architecture that looked modern but warm.
The building I was looking for sat in the center.
Perfect. Clean lines. High ceilings visible through the front glass.
Lorraine was waiting by the door in a cream coat, tablet tucked under her arm.
She smiled when she saw me. "Mr. Whitmore. Everything is ready."
"Thank you," I said, shaking her hand.
She unlocked the door and motioned for me to step in first.
Even though I had seen it once before, the space still hit me.
Wide. Bright. Open.
Tall windows letting in sheets of late-afternoon sun.
Marble tile still wrapped in protective film.
Chandeliers waiting to be hung.
French doors leading to what would become private suites.
"She's going to love it," Lorraine said quietly, reading the expression I wasn't trying to hide.
I swallowed once. "Yeah," I murmured. "She will."