Private Sessions

1.

I hate that he won.

I let my smile stay exactly where it is-soft, controlled, public. It doesn't shake. It doesn't falter. If anything, it gets better. Sharper. The kind of smile you can hang a headline on.

Rodney is across the ballroom doing what Rodney does best, existing like a man who's always been inevitable.

There are cameras everywhere. Not just the obvious ones, the crews with their shoulder rigs and bright lights, but phones too, held up like little altars. The room is lit by screens and chandeliers, by flashbulbs and the glow of victory, and every time I blink I feel like I'm blinking into history.

It's on every television mounted along the walls. It's on the scrolling banner beneath the anchor's face. It's on the faces of the people around me-wide-eyed, euphoric, hungry.

I lift the glass to my lips and pretend to drink. The rim is cold. My throat stays dry.

My phone buzzes once in my clutch, the vibration small enough that no one notices. I don't check it right away. I give it ten seconds-long enough to prove I'm not desperate, long enough to look like I'm present in my own life.

Then I glance down.

Another bubble, right behind it.

I almost laugh. Not because it's funny. Because Bianca lives in a world where my face is allowed to mean something.

It buzzes again.

I glance up without moving my head too much, scanning the room the way I've learned to scan rooms-like a survival skill, not a habit.

There's a press photographer near the stage, angled toward the crowd.

There's a young staffer live-streaming with his phone held high, panning over faces like trophies.

There's a woman in a navy dress with a pearl choker, Vivian Bowers, watching me the same way she watches polling numbers, like I'm a variable that needs to behave.

I give them what they came for.

My smile widens a fraction. My eyes soften. I tilt my head slightly, like I'm listening to someone say something sweet.

Poker face. Always.

Rodney makes the rounds like the ballroom belongs to him. He hugs men in suits who smell like cologne and confidence. He shakes hands with donors whose names I've said a thousand times and still can't remember. He poses with staffers who are already crying like his win cured their childhoods.

He doesn't look at me.

It's been almost an hour since they called it-since the room erupted, since confetti cannons went off and someone shoved a microphone toward my mouth like I was supposed to speak joy into existence.

I said the right things. Of course I did.

I smiled until my cheeks ached and my teeth felt like props.

I stood exactly where I was supposed to stand.

And Rodney greeted everyone else first.

I watch him hug an older woman in a sequined blazer. He kisses her cheek twice. He laughs. He leans in like she's the only person in the room. Like he's grateful. Like he's human.

Then, finally, he starts moving toward me.

Not quickly. Not urgently. Just... eventually. Like I'm the last item on a list.

My posture doesn't change. My shoulders stay relaxed. My hands stay steady around the stem of my glass. I don't reach for him. I don't take a step forward. I don't do anything that can be read as need.

When he gets close enough, I can smell him-aftershave, clean linen, and that faint metallic scent that always clings to him when he's been shaking hands for too long. Someone with a camera follows at his shoulder.

Rodney leans in and kisses my cheek.

It's brief. Dry. A gesture.

Then, without looking at me, he murmurs, "I'm addressing the nation in twenty."

My smile doesn't move.

"You don't have to stick around," he adds, voice low, almost kind. Almost.

Almost is how he gets away with everything.

I angle my face toward him just enough for the camera to catch the profile of a devoted wife. "Okay," I say, quietly. Pleasantly. Like he just told me dessert was being served in another room.

Rodney's hand brushes my waist-not a hold, not an embrace, just contact. Ownership. Then he's already turning away, being swallowed back into the room full of people who love him.

I watch him go.

I don't chase him. I don't flinch. I don't let a single crack show.

Because if my face breaks here, in front of all these smiling mouths and shining eyes, it won't be a crack.

It'll be a headline.

My phone buzzes again.

This time, I don't look down. I already know what Reese would say if she were standing beside me instead of somewhere in the political shark tank closer to the stage.

Hold it together. Not here.

So I hold it.

I set my champagne flute on a passing tray like I'm done celebrating.

I smooth my dress over my hips like I'm just adjusting fabric, not bracing myself.

I take one last glance at the screens-Rodney's face, larger than life, the words PRESIDENT-ELECT stamped beneath him-and I turn toward the exit with the same calm expression I walked in with.

If anyone is watching, they'll think I'm being gracious. They'll think I'm tired. They'll think I'm overwhelmed with happiness.

They'll think whatever they want.

I keep my smile.

And I leave.

The air changes the second I step outside.

It's quieter. Colder. The music muffled behind heavy doors that slide shut with a final, cushioned click. The night presses in on me, crisp and sharp, and for the first time since the room started cheering, I can hear my own breath.

In.

Out.

Slow.

I don't rush. I never rush. Rushing looks like panic, and panic looks like weakness. Instead, I walk at the same measured pace I've perfected over the years, heels clicking softly against the pavement like punctuation marks.

Joe is waiting by the car.

Of course he is.

He stands exactly where he always does-hands folded behind his back, posture straight, face neutral.

The town car's door is already open before I'm close enough to reach for it.

Joe doesn't look at me. He never does. His eyes stay fixed somewhere over my shoulder, like I'm part of the scenery. Like I've always been.

"The residence, ma'am?" he asks.

His voice is polite. Professional. Empty.

"Yes," I say. One word. Even. Calm. "Thank you."

He nods once, the same nod he's given me for six years, and nothing more. No congratulations. No long night. No acknowledgment that his boss just became the most powerful man in the country.

Joe has been Rodney's driver since he was a teenager. He likes to tell people that-likes to remind them that he's been here since the beginning. Before the speeches. Before the donors. Before me.

I slide into the backseat, smoothing my dress beneath me, careful not to wrinkle it. The leather is cool against my legs. The door closes with a quiet, deliberate thud.

Safe.

The car pulls away from the curb, seamless and silent. Streetlights blur past the tinted windows in soft streaks of gold. I fold my hands in my lap and stare straight ahead, like I'm still being watched.

My chest tightens.

Not sharply. Not enough to make a scene. Just enough to remind me that it's there-that familiar pressure, like someone's palm pressing flat against my sternum.

In.

Out.

I count the breaths in my head. Four in. Four out. The way a therapist once taught me in college, back when I thought anxiety was something you outgrew if you worked hard enough.

My phone buzzes again. I don't look at it. If I look, I might lose the count. If I lose the count, Joe might hear something-my breath hitching, my fingers tapping, my control slipping.

I will not have a panic attack in front of Joe.

Joe notices everything.

The city hums outside, oblivious. Somewhere, people are still cheering. Somewhere, Rodney is standing at a podium, adjusting his tie, preparing to tell the nation how honored he is, how grateful, how committed.

I wonder if he'll mention me.

The thought makes something twist low in my stomach, but my face doesn't change. It never does.

I watch my reflection in the darkened window-my makeup intact, my hair still perfect, my eyes steady. I look exactly like the woman people expect me to be.

The car slows as we turn onto our street. The gates glide open, smooth and soundless. Home. The word lands heavy, like it always does.

Joe pulls into the drive and steps out, opening my door again before I can move.

"Good night, ma'am," he says.

"Good night, Joe."

He doesn't respond.

I step out into the quiet, the door closing behind me with a soft finality. Joe is already back in the driver's seat, the car reversing before I've reached the front steps.

I don't watch him leave.

I walk inside alone.

The foyer lights turn on automatically when I step inside. Soft and warm. Welcoming. Like the house is pretending it loves me.

I toe out of my heels without looking down, placing them neatly beside the entry table the way I've trained myself to do. I slip my clutch onto the console like it weighs nothing, like my hands aren't still buzzing with leftover adrenaline from the ballroom.

I go straight upstairs first and to the bathroom.

I turn the shower on as hot as it'll go and peel the dress off my body like I'm shedding skin. The fabric slides down, heavy and reluctant, pooling at my feet in a silk puddle. The mirror catches me for a second-hair still in place, makeup still smooth, eyes still calm.

Poker face.

It only holds until the water hits.

Steam blooms around me and the heat wraps my body like a blanket, and suddenly I can't breathe the way I was breathing in the car. My chest tightens and tightens until it's not tight anymore-until it's hollow.

A sound slips out of me. Not a sob. Not yet.

Just... air.

Then another.

Then the first sob punches through so hard I have to brace my hand against the tile.

I cry quietly at first. The way I've learned to cry. The way I cried when I was nineteen and he slammed a door. The way I cried when I was twenty-two and he apologized with flowers. The way I cried when my mother called me from a hospital bed trying to pretend her voice didn't sound thin.

Small. Controlled. Silent.

It doesn't last.