4. #3
"I don't believe any party gets to claim Black people," I say. "And I don't believe any Black person owes blind loyalty to a party. My responsibility—especially in this role—is to advocate for policy that protects communities like ours and to speak up when I believe something needs to change."
I pause, letting it land.
"Reform work requires access," I add. "It requires being at the table. And whether people agree with me or not, I intend to use my position to push for tangible outcomes—education funding, reentry support, mental health resources, and reforms that reduce harm."
It's honest.
It's exactly the kind of answer Vivian would want.
But it's also mine, in the only way I'm allowed to have anything.
The student nods slowly, accepting it even if she isn't fully satisfied.
The moderator jumps in with the next question.
And I realize—quietly, privately—that I did it.
I felt the panic coming and I stopped it.
Not perfectly.
But enough.
When the QA ends, applause rises again, and this time my smile is easier.
Not because I'm happy.
Because for the first time in a long time, I feel a small spark of competence that belongs to me—not the administration, not Rodney, not Vivian.
Me.
We fast forward through photos and handshakes and polite conversations. Through Vivian whispering reminders about angles and lighting. Through security moving people away gently, firmly.
By the time I'm back in the car heading home, my feet ache and my throat is dry, but my head is clear.
I did well.
I didn't crumble.
I didn't embarrass anyone.
For once, the day ends with something like pride.
The car pulls into the driveway.
The front door opens.
And the second I step inside, the sound hits me like a slap.
Rodney's voice—sharp, loud, furious—coming from somewhere deeper in the house.
My good mood evaporates so fast it feels like it never existed.
My skin goes cold.
I freeze with my coat still on, listening.
He's on the phone.
Yelling at someone.
My heart begins to pound, not with panic this time—something older. Something trained.
Fear.
I move carefully, quietly, trying to slip past the entryway without making sound. I ease my coat off inch by inch like the fabric itself could betray me.
I almost make it.
Then Rodney appears at the edge of the hall, phone pressed to his ear, jaw tight with rage. His eyes snap to me like he can smell my presence.
He pauses.
His gaze rakes over me—navy suit, neat hair, polished face—as if he's deciding whether I've earned mercy.
Into the phone he says, clipped, "I have to go."
Then he ends the call.
And turns fully toward me.
My pulse stutters.
I paste on the softest smile I can manage.
"Hi, honey," I say, voice light—sweetening, smoothing, doing what I have to do so I won't become the place his anger lands.
I step in and kiss his cheek.
It's quick.
It's strategic.
Rodney's body is tense beneath the expensive fabric of his suit, like stress has settled into his muscles and made a home there. His eyes don't soften.
They sharpen.
And I know—immediately—this night isn't going to end with me proud of myself.
It's going to end with me managing him.
Rodney stands very still, staring at me like he's taking inventory.
His face is controlled—public-ready. Jaw tight. Mouth flat. No glass in his hand. No liquor on his breath. Rodney rarely drinks.
People like to tell themselves men get mean because they drink.
It's easier that way.
But Rodney doesn't need a reason that can be blamed on something else.
This is him.
"Where were you?" he asks.
His voice is calm, almost conversational, and my stomach drops anyway. Calm is never calm with him. Calm is the moment before the storm decides where to land.
"I had an event," I say softly, still smiling. Still careful. "Howard. Criminal justice seminar. Vivian sent you the schedule."
The mention of Vivian irritates him—the way his eyes narrow, like even her name takes up space he'd rather keep for himself.
"Did you do well?" he asks.
"Yes," I answer quickly. "It went really well. The students were—"
"Did you do well," he repeats, cutting me off, "or did you embarrass me?"
My smile stiffens at the corners.
"I didn't embarrass you," I say, gentle. "I did fine."
"Fine," he echoes, like the word offends him. "You love that word."
I keep my hands loose at my sides. I keep my breathing even. I keep my eyes soft, not challenging.
"Rodney," I say carefully, because praise can be a sedative when nothing else works, "I'm proud of you. I know today was stressful. You've had a lot—"
His gaze snaps up like I struck a match.
"You think I can't handle this," he says.
The words are so sudden I almost flinch. Almost.
"What?" I whisper.
He steps closer, and his cologne hits me—sharp and expensive and meant to announce power before he speaks.
"You walk in here glowing," he says, voice lower now, more controlled. "Like you had a good day."
I keep my expression smooth. "It was a good event."
"And why," he asks, "would you be happy about anything that isn't me?"
My throat tightens.
"It's good press," I say quickly. "It's good for us. For you."
"For me," Rodney repeats, and his mouth twists into something that isn't a smile. "Everything is always for me."
He takes another step, close enough that I can see the vein pulsing at his temple.
"Did anyone ask you questions?" he says. "Anything... interesting."
The trap snaps shut around the word.
My pulse spikes, but my face doesn't change. Poker face.
"It was normal," I answer. "Questions about policy and school. Nothing crazy."
Rodney stares at me like he can see through skin.
Then his eyes flick, quick, to my mouth.
My smile.
The tiniest residue of pride I didn't fully wash off before coming inside.
His jaw tightens.
"You like when they look at you," he says quietly.
My stomach turns.
"It's not like that."
"It is," he cuts in, sharper now. "They look at you like you're special. Like you're yours."
His hand lifts.
For a split second, my body prepares for a slap—because that would make sense. That would be the usual logic.
But Rodney doesn't go for my face.
He goes for my throat.
His palm clamps around the front of my neck, thumb pressing under my jaw, and the world narrows instantly.
My breath catches.
My hands lift instinctively, hovering at his wrist without fully grabbing—because grabbing turns him into a victim in his own mind. Because fighting back makes him feel justified.
"Rodney," I rasp.
He squeezes—not enough to fully cut off air, just enough to terrify me. Enough to make my knees soften. Enough to remind my body it is small.
"You're mine," he says, close. Calm. Possessive. Like it's a fact. Like it's a law.
My throat burns.
"I'm—" My voice breaks. I swallow. "I'm here."
It's what he wants to hear.
It never works.
Rodney's grip tightens, and he shoves.
My feet slide back. My heel catches. I lose balance, and my shoulder hits the wall hard enough to make a bright spark burst behind my eyes.
I gasp—ugly, involuntary.
Rodney doesn't release me.
He leans in, face inches from mine, his voice a hiss.
"You think you can go out there and make me look weak," he says, "smiling like you don't belong to me."
"I don't," I choke out. "I don't—Rodney, please."
His eyes flick over my face—assessing, calculating—like he's deciding whether my fear is satisfying enough.
Then his mouth twists.
"You're so ungrateful," he says, venomous. "Do you know what you'd be without me?"
My throat burns. Tears sting, but I don't let them fall.
"Answer me," he snaps.
I nod rapidly because it's all I can do.
Rodney's fingers flex around my throat one more time—
Then he releases me.
I drop fast, my legs buckling under me. My head swings back before I can catch myself, and the back of my skull meets the tile with a sharp, cracking impact.
Pain explodes.
The room tilts.
Sound warps, stretches.
For a second I see only ceiling.
Then nothing.
When my eyes flicker open, the house is quieter.
Not peaceful. Just emptied of his voice.
I lie on the floor for a moment, not moving, because my body doesn't know if it's safe to yet.
My head pulses. A slow, nauseating throb. My vision swims at the edges.
I hear a door. Footsteps fading. The front lock clicking.
Rodney's silhouette passes through my blurred vision.
He doesn't look back.
Then he's gone.
I swallow, tasting metal.
My hand lifts slowly to the back of my head. My fingers come away dry.
No blood.
Lucky.
That word makes me want to laugh.
I roll onto my side, breath shaky, and force myself up on trembling arms. My knees wobble under me as I stand, the room spinning once, then settling.
I take one step.
Then another.
I make it to the bathroom like a ghost, closing the door behind me with hands that don't feel like mine.
The shower turns on.
Hot water fills the space, steam blooming fast.
I step under it fully clothed at first, because my brain is slow and my body is just trying to feel something other than fear.
Then I peel everything off piece by piece—blazer, blouse, skirt—letting the fabric fall like dead weight.
The water hits my shoulders, my scalp, and I press my forehead against the tile.
A sound leaves my mouth—small, broken—something between a sob and a breath.
I don't let it become loud.
Then I shut it down before the crying can turn into something that swallows me.
When I step out, I don't bother with clothes.
Clothes feel like restraint.
I wrap myself in a robe—soft, thick—and tie it loosely, then slip my phone into the pocket.
My body feels light and heavy at the same time. My head still throbs. My throat aches beneath the skin where his hand was.
I walk to the bedroom.
The balcony door is right there, a black rectangle against the night, leading to cold air and space.
I open it.