2. #3
Half of the people Rodney keeps around him-his advisors, his donors, the men who speak in polished sentences about "values"-have never been warm to me. Not really. Not past the cameras. Not past the smiles.
They tolerate me the way they tolerate anything that makes them look better.
And Rodney...
Rodney has always understood the optics.
Whenever he introduced me at events, he'd do it like a joke.
"This is my wife," he'd say, grinning as people blink and reassess. "I know. Shocking."
Then he'd add, like he was flattering me, like it was about my face "You're so young and beautiful, people think I'm lying."
The room would laugh.
And I would smile.
But I always knew what he was really saying.
Not young. Not beautiful.
Black.
Because the shock was never that I was twenty-something.
The shock was that I was me.
Vivian keeps talking, tapping her pen against her desk. "We just need to be smart about it. Lean into it without making it feel like we're leaning into it."
I nod again.
Poker face.
Like her words don't make my skin feel like something I'm wearing for them.
Then Vivian's phone buzzes.
Her expression changes.
She turns slightly, hand covering the mic, and I hear her murmur, "Yes, sir."
Rodney.
I stare at myself in the mirror behind my laptop. My reflection is deadpanned, composed, pretty in that controlled way people call elegant.
There's a bruise on my chin.
It's fading. The purple softening into yellow. My concealer is doing its job. From a distance, you wouldn't notice it.
Up close... I can.
She straightens, her expression shifting into something more... careful. "He's calling in," she says.
I blink. "Calling in?"
Vivian's mouth tightens. "Yes. Just... give him a moment."
She clicks something. The screen flickers as another line joins.
Then Rodney's voice fills my speakers.
"I'm going to ask this once," he says, already furious, like the anger has been waiting. "Do you have mental issues?"
I don't move.
I don't gasp.
I don't react the way a normal wife might react to her husband screaming through a business call.
Vivian's voice cuts in, polite and professional. "Mr. President-elect, she-"
"Don't," Rodney snaps. "I'm speaking to my wife."
Chattering echoes faintly behind him-men's voices, laughter, movement. He's not alone. Of course he isn't. He's somewhere important, somewhere crowded, somewhere he can perform power while he tears me down.
"I got a call," Rodney continues. "A call from Lysbeth Harris's office."
My chest tightens. My mind flashes to confetti. To the sound. To my hands shaking.
Rodney laughs once, humorless. "Do you understand what it looks like when the President-elect's wife has a panic attack in public? In front of a CEO? Do you understand what kind of story that becomes if someone decides to talk?"
I keep my voice calm when I finally speak. "It was a misunderstanding. Someone startled me-"
"Check yourself," he cuts in, voice sharp. "Check your emotions. You cannot embarrass me. You will not embarrass me."
I swallow, eyes still on the mirror. On the bruise. On the proof that it's never really about embarrassment.
Vivian sits frozen on the screen like she's trying not to exist.
Rodney's voice lowers, dangerous. "If you can't handle the attention, Naomi, then you need to figure out what's wrong with you. Do you hear me?"
"Yes," I say softly.
There's a pause, like he's satisfied with the submission. Like he's fed.
"Good," he says. "Vivian will handle your schedule. Do what you're told."
And then the line clicks out.
Vivian exhales like she's been holding her breath. Her smile returns, tight and professional, like she can stitch this back together with efficiency.
"I'm sorry," she says quickly. "He's... under a lot of pressure."
I nod once, because nodding is safer than speaking.
"Tomorrow," Vivian continues, voice brightening as if the call didn't just happen, "I'm going to need you to post something supportive. Warm. Congratulatory. We'll draft it together."
"Okay," I say.
Vivian keeps talking, but her words blur. My eyes keep drifting to my chin. To the fading bruise. To the way my face stays calm anyway.
Poker face.
Always.
After the Zoom ends, I sit at my vanity for a long time without moving.
I scroll through my texts like I'm looking for something to busy myself.
Then my phone buzzes with a new message from an unknown number.
For a second my body goes cold.
But it isn't Rodney.
It's the Pilates instructor.
Underneath, she sends a contact card.
Grant Lennox, M.D/PhD
The Lennox Group
I stare at the name until my eyes sting.
A therapist.
A stranger.
A man who makes a living listening to people tell the truth.
In this room, the truth is dangerous.
I swallow, thumb hovering over the contact like it might burn me.
And for the first time in twenty-four hours, something inside me shifts-not hope exactly, not yet.
I don't save the contact.
Not right away.
I just stare.
Because wanting help is one thing.
Reaching for it is another.