twenty eight
The phone felt heavier in my hand than it should have.
For a few seconds, I just stared at Sam's message.
The little preview of the photo-Brooks standing just behind a woman I almost recognized-blurred in my vision.
Amira??? What's going on???
I didn't answer.
My thumb hovered over the screen like it might burn me.
The room was too quiet. The only sound was the faint hum of the fridge, a few cars on the street below. I shifted on the couch, the leather creaking under my bare thighs, but the rest of me didn't move.
I told myself not to look. That there was nothing in this I hadn't already agreed to.
He'd warned me. He'd told me there'd be someone from his world. That it would look a certain way. That it wouldn't mean anything.
But it feels like something.
I swallowed and tapped the photo to expand it.
I blinked out of the photo and opened Safari before I could change my mind.
Brooks stood just behind her-tall, composed, every bit the man who could disappear into that world like he'd been born to it. The woman at his side looked polished and familiar in a way that made my stomach dip.
It took a second before it clicked.
The gala.
She was the one the First Lady had pulled aside. The one with the soft laugh and sleek ponytail, nodding politely as the two of them spoke like old friends. I'd noticed her in passing that night, but I hadn't known her name. Hadn't realized how close to the center she stood.
But now, scrolling through photo after photo-smiling beside senators, attending fundraisers in silk gowns, giving interviews on morning news shows-it was obvious.
She wasn't just someone.
Margot Wellesley.
The search bar auto-completed the name before I even finished typing.
The first link was her official bio on the Vice President's website.
I scanned the page, but the words didn't really stick. Something about early childhood education, something about a fellowship in Paris. A dozen bullet points that told me exactly how she was the right kind of woman to stand next to a man like Brooks.
I clicked out and went to her Instagram instead.
Blue checkmark.
A million followers.
Grid full of polished little windows into a life I'd never touch.
The first row of photos made my stomach sink.
She was everything I wasn't.
I scrolled until my thumb started to hurt.
Charity galas. Fundraisers. Photos of her posed in front of a white backdrop with a wall of logos.
Brooks showed up in three of them.
The last one was taken a few hours ago-her holding a large bouquet.
My pulse fluttered up into my throat.
I swallowed, hard.
It wasn't like I didn't know this would be happening. He'd told me the campaign would want to stage certain moments. That some images were more palatable than others.
It's just appearances.
I'd believed him. Or I'd wanted to.
But now, with her face looking back at me from the screen, it didn't feel like "just appearances." It felt inevitable. Like a future that had already been written.
I set the phone facedown on the couch and pressed the heels of my palms into my eyes.
The quiet felt enormous.
I thought about how easily she fit in that world. How she was the kind of woman who didn't need explaining. The kind of woman whose last name did the work for her.
My last name didn't do anything. It just sat there, six letters I'd learned to say in a way that wouldn't embarrass me in front of strangers.
You knew this.
I tried to breathe around the sick twist in my chest.
My phone buzzed again.
A private text from Sam.
I didn't answer.
Instead, I stood up, my knees stiff. I walked to the kitchen because I needed to do something with my hands. My legs. My body. Anything other than sit there and think.
The counter was clean. Too clean. Like I hadn't really been living here at all these past few months.
I poured a glass of water I didn't want and set it down untouched.
The ceiling light was too bright. The tile too cold under my feet.
For a minute, I just stood there, my palms pressed to the edge of the counter, head bowed like I was waiting for something to come loose inside me.
It's not real. It's politics. You agreed.
I had.
But that didn't stop the picture from replaying every time I blinked.
My phone buzzed again. Another message from Sam.
If I answered, I'd have to admit how much it was getting to me. How it wasn't just about the optics. How it was about the way it felt like everything in my life was always half-borrowed. Like I was someone's phase they'd look back on and call a mistake.
You're not a mistake.
But the thought sounded flimsy. Even in my own head.
I moved back to the couch and picked up my phone, hands unsteady. I clicked back to Margot's profile.
Her last Story was from earlier that evening-a boomerang of her stepping out of a black SUV, laughing, her hair pulled sleek over one shoulder.
The caption was simple.
Big week ahead. Grateful to stand beside people who inspire me every day.
Followed by a row of hearts and an American flag emoji.
It was nothing. It was everything.
I scrolled back to the first time Brooks's face appeared in her feed. A photo from last year. Some reception in D.C. I hadn't even known him then and yet-looking at it now, it felt like I'd always been on the wrong side of the glass.
I locked the phone, shoved it under the pillow.
The cushion sank under the weight.
I pulled my knees up to my chest and wrapped my arms around them, breathing slow.
I thought about the first night I let him kiss me. How sure he'd sounded when he said he didn't care about what people thought.
I believed him.
I did.
But it didn't make it easier.
Didn't make it feel less like I was a complication he had to manage.
I tipped my head back, blinking up at the ceiling. The recessed lights blurred in my vision.
I tried to remember how it felt before all of this-before the politics, before the campaign, before I understood what it meant to be a liability.
But the feeling was gone. Like trying to grip water with my bare hands.
And maybe that was the part that hurt the most.
Because I still wanted him.
Even now.
Especially now.
And I hated that part of myself just a little more than usual.
I got dressed without thinking. Pulled my hair back. Tossed my keys and heels in a bag. And by the time I walked into the club, the hum of regret had quieted to something dull and manageable.
The place felt colder than usual.
Not temperature-wise, though the AC was working overtime-but in spirit. The lights were too bright. The music too loud. Like the whole room was trying to prove something.
I stepped into the dressing room, relieved when I saw that Sam's station was empty.
No commentary. No soft probing questions. No well-meaning concern.
Just quiet.
I needed that tonight.
I slid into my usual corner, unzipped my bag, and pulled out the same backup heels I always kept there-scuffed on the bottom, glittering just enough to catch the light. Habit took over before my thoughts could spiral again.
My phone buzzed against the counter.
I stared at the screen a little too long before I typed back.
Delivered. Read. No reply.
I tossed the phone facedown and pulled on my robe.
The truth was, I didn't know what I wanted from him. Not really.
Flowers? Maybe.
Answers? Definitely.
I stepped out into the hallway, past the deep red walls that always made the club feel more like a fever dream than real life. Laughter echoed from somewhere down the hall. A familiar beat thumped from the main room.
But none of it reached me.
When I got to the bar, Tim gave me a nod. "Slow night," he said.
"Good," I replied.
He raised an eyebrow but didn't push. Just went back to wiping down the counter.
Out on the floor, the regulars were there-though even they seemed dimmer tonight. Faces blurred under the low lights, bodies moving without urgency. It was the kind of energy that made you feel like a ghost in your own life.
I did two laps around the floor before settling near the back corner, arms crossed, leaning against the cool brick wall.
And that's when my phone buzzed again.
My stomach twisted.
Not because of the message-but because that's how easily he responded. Like we were fine. Like nothing had shifted.
I locked my phone without answering.
I couldn't stop thinking about the Instagram photo.
I rubbed a hand over my chest, willing the tightness away.
Brooks's name hovered in my mind like a screensaver I couldn't turn off.
I thought about texting him back.
Asking why he didn't tell me more about Margot.
Or why he'd never said her name.
Asking what I was supposed to do with the fact that I sat almost naked in his lap while he whispered promises-and still somehow didn't feel like enough.
Instead, I just stood there.
"Dream," Tim called from the bar. "Private room. Guy requested you."
Of course they did.
I pasted on a smile and pushed off the wall.
The hallway stretched out before me like a tunnel.
Each step felt heavier than the last.
I didn't know who was in that room, or what they expected, but I knew it wouldn't matter. Not really. I could put on a show. I could smile. I could bend the right way and say the right things.
But none of that would quiet the ache pressing at my ribs.
The door closed behind me with a soft click.
The room was dim-just a low amber lamp glowing above the leather seating, casting shadows that shifted as I stepped in.
I took a breath and adjusted my posture, slipping Dream into place like muscle memory. Chin tilted, smile soft, steps slow and deliberate.
"Hey, baby," I said, voice syrupy as I leaned against the wall just inside the door. "You've been waiting long?"
He didn't answer right away.
Just sat there, slouched deep in the corner armchair, one leg crossed loosely over the other, nursing a glass of something neat. Bourbon, probably.
His face was in shadow at first. But I could feel the stare.