2.
Morning in this house never arrives gently.
It slides in through the tall windows like something rehearsed-soft light across polished floors, the scent of coffee already brewed, the faint hush of staff moving in rooms I'm not in. Everything is quiet and correct, like the house wakes up before I'm allowed to.
I sit in the backyard because it's the only place that feels remotely like air.
The table has already been set. Of course it has. A folded linen napkin. Real silverware. A small vase of flowers that looks like it was arranged to be photographed. Breakfast is a perfect omelet, golden and fluffy, with toast on the side and a cup of coffee.
I pick up my phone and scroll without thinking.
Twitter is a war zone-celebratory posts, angry posts, conspiracy threads, memes with Rodney's face edited onto movie villains. People argue like the election happened to them personally. Some people are calling me iconic others are saying I looked "cold," "stiff," "like she hates him."
If only they knew.
I tap on a clip someone posted from last night. The camera catches me in the background, smiling in that controlled way I've perfected. My posture is perfect. My face is calm. It looks like a woman who is proud.
It looks nothing like a woman who cried until her lungs hurt.
I set my phone down and pick up my fork.
The plate disappears.
It's so quick I think for a second I imagined it-one blink and the omelet is gone, replaced by a small fruit bowl. Strawberries, blueberries, grapefruit, arranged neatly.
I lift my eyes.
Rodney sits across from me like he's always been there.
He's dressed already. Crisp white shirt. Hair combed into place. Not a wrinkle on him anywhere, not even around his eyes. He looks... rested. Calm. Like last night fed him.
His hand rests on my original plate, fingers curled around the edge like he's claiming it.
"Morning," he says, voice mild.
"Good morning," I reply automatically. My tone matches his. Light. Pleasant. A normal couple greeting each other over breakfast.
Rodney studies my face. Not in a loving way. In a measuring way.
"Vivian said something funny last night," he continues, like we're swapping stories. "She asked if you were expecting."
My throat doesn't tighten. My stomach doesn't flip. My face doesn't move.
I blink once. Slowly.
"Oh," I say, and even that single syllable comes out smooth. "No."
Rodney's lips twitch-almost a smile, if you didn't know him. "She made a joke about you filling out."
The words are casual. The same tone someone might use to comment on the weather.
I keep my expression neutral. My hand stays on the table. I don't curl my fingers into a fist. I don't do anything that looks like reaction.
"I'm on my cycle," I say evenly. "I'm bloated."
It's not even fully a lie. My body does what bodies do. My stomach is softer some days. My clothes fit differently. It's normal.
Normal has never mattered to Rodney.
He leans forward slightly, elbows near the table as if we're sharing something intimate. His eyes narrow.
"Do you think you're the only woman in a room full of women who could be bloated?" he asks. Still mild. Still controlled. "Do you think being on your cycle makes you special?"
I swallow once. My tongue feels too big in my mouth.
"I'm not saying that," I respond, voice soft, polite. "I'm just explaining."
Rodney hums like he's considering my words, like he's being fair.
"You're not going to embarrass me," he says simply. "Not now. Not ever. I won't be married to a pig, Naomi."
Pig.
The word is so ugly it feels out of place on the table next to the flowers and the fruit.
I keep my face calm.
My poker face has survived worse than a word.
"I understand," I say.
Rodney holds my gaze for a beat longer, testing. Then-like the conversation is done-he stands, walks around the table, and presses a kiss to my cheek.
It's warm. Soft. Almost tender.
It would confuse anyone else.
It used to confuse me too.
He sits beside me instead of across from me, close enough that his knee brushes mine. His hand lands on my thigh and starts rubbing slowly, up and down, like he's soothing a dog.
"You did well last night," he says, almost approving. "Everyone noticed you. Very First Lady."
My skin crawls, but my face doesn't show it.
"Thank you," I say quietly.
Rodney smiles as if I've pleased him. His fingers keep moving along my thigh-possessive, familiar.
"How does it feel?" he asks. "Knowing your husband is the President?"
I let out a small breath that could be interpreted as a laugh. "It feels... unreal."
Rodney's hand squeezes my thigh, just a little, like he likes the word husband when it's attached to a title.
"I have to go to Jersey in a few hours," he says, voice changing smoothly. "Two days."
"I'll be back before you know it."
"Okay," I answer.
Rodney leans closer, his mouth near my ear now. His touch on my thigh turns a little more deliberate, like he's reminding me what else he owns besides my last name.
"You should post," he murmurs. "A congratulatory post. Something warm. Something grateful. I don't want the public thinking we're unhappy."
My stomach turns at the memory of last night's comments.
"I was going to," I say. "I just haven't yet."
Rodney's fingers pause. Then resume.
"Good," he says, satisfied. Then, in the same soft tone "Because you don't want me to have to ask twice."
There it is.
The thing tucked inside every sentence he says.
I tilt my head slightly and press a kiss to his cheek, gentle and practiced, like affection.
"I'm proud of you," I say. "Really."
Rodney's hand stays on my thigh.
I smile softly, like a devoted wife.
"I have a workout class in an hour," I add, still sweet, still controlled. "I should get ready."
Rodney looks at me for a moment like he's deciding if he wants to argue. If he wants to keep me here longer. If he wants to pull the thread.
Then he nods once.
"I'll be gone before you get back," he says, almost gracious.
My smile holds.
"Okay."
He stands, straightening his cufflinks. He kisses my forehead like a blessing. Like a brand.
Then he walks out of the yard like he didn't just call me a pig.
I don't move until I hear the sliding door close behind him.
Only then do I let myself exhale.
Not shakily. Not dramatically.
Just one long breath that tastes like relief.
Thank God, I think, still smiling at nothing.
I pick up a blueberry and place it in my mouth.
It tastes like punishment.
The Pilates studio smells like eucalyptus.
The kind of place that pretends it isn't a place you come to be judged, even though judgment is stitched into the white towels and the glossy mirrors and the way the women glance at each other's stomachs before they say hello.
I check in with a smile that's automatic. My name is already on the list. Of course it is. People have been preparing for last night longer than I have.
"Good morning, Naomi," the receptionist says, voice bright.
I nod once. "Good morning."
I keep my sunglasses on until the last possible second, even though we're indoors, because they hide the faint red that still lingers around my eyes. Because they give me one extra layer between my face and the world.
In the locker room, women move around each other like they're all politely competing for air. Their voices are soft, friendly, laced with sugar.
"Such an exciting night."
"Historic, really."
"I cried when it was called."
"Your dress was stunning, Naomi."
I accept every compliment with the same small smile, the same gentle nod. I don't oversell it. I don't deny it. I don't do anything that would invite questions.
Poker face.
I change into a matching set-black leggings, fitted top-because Rodney likes it when I look "disciplined." Like my body is something I maintain for him. Like my skin is part of his brand.
I catch myself in the mirror as I tie my hair up.
The class itself is torture disguised as empowerment. Slow movements that set your muscles on fire, breathing patterns that are supposed to calm you, instructors who talk about "gratitude" and "strength" like those are things you can just choose.
I focus on the pain because it's controllable.
Pain in my muscles has a beginning and an end.
When class finally ends, I'm sweating and smiling, and the women around me are laughing softly like we're all friends. Like we all belong in the same world.
In the locker room, I towel off, shoulders still tense, phone in my hand.
A message from Reese flashes across my screen first.
Before I can respond, another text comes through.
It's from Rodney.
A second bubble.
Then a third.
My vision narrows for a second.
I blink once. Twice.
I don't let my face change, even though the locker room is suddenly too bright, too loud, too full of women who would love to dissect me if I gave them a crack.
I don't reply.
Instead, I put the phone down on the bench like it's nothing. Like I'm not holding my breath. Like my heart isn't pounding in a steady, sick rhythm.
I look around.
The locker room is empty.
Of course it is.
The second I'm alone, the weight hits harder.
I sit, elbows on my knees, head slightly bowed-not collapsed, not dramatic. Just... still.
In.
Out.
I can do this.
I can do anything for an hour.
I stand and smooth my top, adjust my ponytail, check my reflection.
My face is calm.
My smile is back in place.
I open the locker room door.
And confetti explodes in my face.
The sound is so loud it's like a gunshot.
My body reacts before my brain catches up-my shoulders jerk, my breath vanishes, my hands fly up instinctively as if to protect my head.
"Surprise!"
A chorus of voices. Laughter. Clapping. Someone squeals.
"Congratulations, First Lady!"
A sign swings in front of me, held high by one of the instructors CONGRATS NAOMI!
written in glittering gold letters. Another instructor holds a fruit arrangement shaped like a heart.