Chapter 2 JENNA
A few hours later…
"Jenna," he says instead of good morning, no warmth, no ramp, just the sound of my name as a pointed reminder. "Have you seen the news?"
I blink myself awake faster than I thought possible. "No." There's an undercurrent in my voice I hope he doesn't hear. "What happened?"
"A performer died overnight. Cocaine. Fentanyl contamination, most likely." A deliberate pause follows, just long enough for me to conjure the right amount of horror. "Very public. Very ugly."
I don't need to ask if it's someone important; he wouldn't care unless it moved the needle.
A nobody dies, and it's a tragedy. A celebrity dies, and it's legislation.
I fumble for my tablet, quickly scrolling to the headline.
Being my father's PR director means I don't get the luxury of shock.
I get angles. Talking points. Damage control.
A job I never wanted. I studied English; I wanted to become a writer.
But when Carter's accident happened and the sympathy wave hit, my father decided I was more useful beside him than anywhere else.
I became the voice behind his speeches. The Collector of his crusades.
The one who turns bodies into bills and grief into polling numbers.
The grieving wife narrative tested well. So here I am.
The news is a slab of raw meat:
VEGAS ICON FOUND DEAD — SUSPECTED DRUG OVERDOSE
My stomach knots itself into something new and permanent.
"We need to capitalize on this." I can feel my father's glee through the phone, and I anticipate the words forming, neat and trimmed, already rehearsed in his mind.
"Remind people what we stand for. Human trafficking was just the beginning.
Nevada needs stronger drug legislation. We can make this a state issue. "
I picture the latest campaign photos: his smile sharpened for the cameras, the handshake grip just short of a threat, the clean sweep of a landslide win.
The banners with the word FAMILY in a font larger than his own name.
He'd spent election night on camera, spinning a narrative about innocence and danger, about protecting people who couldn't protect themselves.
"What do you need from me?" I ask. My voice is small, but that's the way he likes it.
He wants a daughter he can keep in line, one far removed from the rebellious kid he brought to heel ten years ago.
But for my son, Amauri, I'd go to hell and back if I had to.
And again. He's worth every day, every hour, every minute of the debacle that has become my life.
"A statement. Something warm. Personal. You're good at that. The grieving wife angle still plays well."
It's not a question. It's an assignment. I close my eyes, trying to will the room into a different shape. I stare at Amauri's picture, and like always, the image of him grinning into the camera makes it all worthwhile.
"I'm not—" I start, but he cuts me off like a surgeon cauterizing a wound.
"I know," he says. "But perception matters. We'll have Carter echo it at the office today. Optics."
Optics. The word tastes like a pill I can't swallow, leaving a bitter shell dissolving on my tongue.
He loves me playing the role of the devout wife.
The loyal mother. The woman standing beside America's wounded golden boy.
Carter in his wheelchair. Brave. Resilient. Beaten down by life but still smiling.
My father stands just behind him, hand on his shoulder, the champion of the common man. The man who understands tragedy because it happened in his own family. It polls beautifully. Every photo says the same thing: I get you. I get your suffering. I am one of you.
Voters eat it up. Carter loves it too. Loves the reverence. The sympathy. The way people look at him like he conquered something instead of surviving it. I play my part because I have to. Because in this family, safety is conditional. And I have a son to keep alive.
"Send me a draft," I resign myself, while my hands curl into fists under the covers.
"Good girl." He hangs up before I can respond, and I'm left staring at the screen, the headline boring into my brain like a screw.
Cocaine. Vegas. Dead.
This will play right into my father's newest bill about stopping drugs from coming into Nevada.
With the success of his human trafficking bill earlier this year and this new one, he's on the road to becoming president.
The only people who hate him are the criminals, but Dad has guards who shield him from that threat.
Something ugly and familiar creeps up my spine, a sense of a memory, of a time I've tried to layer over with better images. Before I can finish the thought, Carter yells from the other bedroom. "Jenna! I need you. Now."
I close my eyes and count to five. My bedroom is the only territory I ever managed to claim in this house, the only border he's ever respected.
It's a truce, a partition of sorts: he sleeps in one room, and I in another.
We move along parallel lines, never touching, rarely intersecting, maintaining the illusion of autonomy.
As if I had any in the first place. As if my father wasn't the one who forced me into this charade of a marriage.
Carter is never cruel in ways people can see. He is careful about that. His bitterness leaks out in silences, in absences, in the way he makes me feel like I'm not important enough to notice. But the moment he needs me, he drags me back into his orbit.
I force myself out of bed and pad down the hall.
Carter lies exactly where he always does, propped up like a miniature dictator: pillows fluffed, arms crossed, the unmistakable lines of rage already forming around his jaw.
The wheelchair waits beside him, the silent witness to every one of our mornings.
He has an aide for everything—a therapist, an assistant, a helper—but he insists I do this part, claiming it's too private for anyone but his wife to handle.
No matter whether I was a willing bride or not.
Carter has an extraordinary talent for rewriting reality until it flatters him.
In his version of our story, he's the injured hero.
The betrayed man. The one who suffered most. Our marriage isn't something I was maneuvered into; it's something he salvaged.
Noble. Necessary. In his mind, he saved me and Amauri. He believes that. Completely.
He's the kind of man who could drive drunk, plow into someone crossing the street, and wake up furious at the victim. What the hell was he doing out at that hour? Why was he in my way? Now I'm the one paying for it.
That's Carter. First, he sold me. Then he bought me back. And somehow, in his mind, he's still the one who was wronged. "You took forever," he snaps.
"I just woke up."
"Don't get smart with me." His gaze flicks to the digital clock, numbers ticking like a bomb; there is not a trace left of the charming boy I once thought myself in love with. "I have to be at the office by eight."
The office. The one my father built for him.
The one with the windows and the oxygen-pumped air and the rows of expensive, meaningless awards.
The one place Carter has been important since injury decimated his football career.
He's my father's accessory. Even before the accident, he wanted Carter to be his son-in-law.
He was malleable, easy-going, and America's Sweetheart.
After the tackle that paralyzed him, his importance only grew in my father's mind.
Carter had become the tragic story. A young man's life dream, abruptly halted; a man who should have given up, but who rose to the occasion.
A hero not just on the football field, but all the way around.
A role model for any young man. A message to everyone: You can overcome anything.
I change his urine bag without comment, my hands moving as if guided by muscle memory. He does not thank me. He never does.
"Careful," he hisses. "Jesus, Jenna, do you want to humiliate me?"
I clench my jaw, focus on the mechanics: clamp, unhook, reattach, rinse. "I'm being careful."
"Try harder."
I help him into his shirt and trousers. Up top, his body is still lean and hard, but below, there are no bulging muscles; they atrophied years ago. There is no gratitude in his face, only the momentary pleasure of being obeyed.
"You see the news?" he asks, the question a test.
"Yes."
He grins, teeth too white, too perfect. "Good timing, huh? Dad's gonna milk that for all it's worth."
Dad. Sometimes it feels like Preston Kingsley is more Carter's father than mine.
Like my father adopted him the moment he was broken and no longer of use to his own. Dad always wanted a son. Someone polished. Ambitious. Public-facing. Someone he could shape. Carter needed a patron, especially after the accident. My father needed a symbol. They found each other.
Carter worships him for it. For the office. The platform. The relevance he would've lost without him. And Dad loves having a wounded hero at his side, a living monument to perseverance. It plays well in photographs.
As for Carter's father? I like to think he knew what kind of man Carter really was and turned from him. He never had much of a presence in Carter's life to begin with.
"You know," he says, "people love a crusade. The more tragic, the better. Drugs. Trafficking. All that puritan bullshit." His smile gets meaner. "Almost makes you forget where the real money comes from."
My hands freeze.
He notices.
"Don't," he says, softer now, the edge of threat replaced by something almost gentle. "Don't pretend you don't know how this works."
I straighten up, feel the bones in my back clicking into place.
"You can finish getting dressed," I tell him.
He laughs. "Still playing the saint, huh? You know what happens to saints in this family, Jenna. They burn."