5.
The barre studio lights were painful.
All mirrors, soft lighting, women in matching sets pretending they aren't competing. The instructor's voice stays sweet while she counts us into pain—tiny movements that burn like the truth does when you try to keep it quiet.
"Pulse. Pulse. Hold."
My thighs shake. My face doesn't.
Around me, the women move like this is play. Like discomfort is a choice they can opt out of the moment class ends.
I finish the set anyway. Controlled and silent.
Reese catches my eye in the mirror and lifts one brow like she's daring me to admit I'm struggling. Reese never looks like the class is wearing her out.
When the cooldown ends, I wipe my hands on my towel and step off the mat.
The instructor chirps a congratulations to the room like we've accomplished something noble. A couple women laugh, collecting their designer water bottles and their pride.
I reach for my tote.
Security is outside the glass doors, lingering in that careful distance that's meant to look casual. They don't step into the studio—too visible, too obvious—but they're there like punctuation at the end of every sentence I speak now.
Reese nudges my elbow as we head toward the exit, voice low.
"Coffee?"
I nod. "Please."
We walk out together, security trailing far enough behind that it doesn't look like trailing. Reese always hated how visible my life became after the inauguration, but she never comments on it directly. She's too smart for that. She knows I'd pretend not to care.
We end up in a boutique not far from Georgetown because Reese claims she need some shoes, which is her code for I'm bored and I don't want to go home yet.
I linger near a rack of dresses I don't need.
It's strange—shopping like this. Normal girl behavior with an abnormal price tag. Reese flips through hangers with practiced ease, occasionally holding something up to her body and making a face.
"You've been quiet," she says.
"I'm fine," I respond automatically.
Reese pauses, eyes sliding to me. "You're always fine."
My lips press together.
I should laugh.
I should deflect.
Instead, my fingers pick at the side seam of my tote bag. I don't look at her when I speak.
"I haven't been back to Lennox."
Reese's brows lift. "Since when?"
"Since the night I called him." My voice goes a shade quieter. "I canceled my last two sessions."
Reese doesn't say why? like she doesn't already know. Her face softens.
"Naomi..."
"I was embarrassed," I admit, the words tasting like shame. "And scared."
My stomach twists at the memory like it's trying to rewind me back to that balcony rail—cold air on wet skin, my robe too loose, my mind too loud, my body too tired.
The scariest part wasn't that I called him.
The scariest part was that I meant it.
I meant whatever my mind was considering before his voice broke through the dark.
Something I couldn't undo.
I swallow hard and force my expression steady because the idea of Reese seeing me unravel in public makes me want to crawl out of my own body.
Reese watches me for a long beat.
Then she picks up a shoe—some strappy heel so tall it looks like it should come with a waiver—and says, casually, "Embarrassment is not a reason to stop going to a therapist."
I let out a small breath that could've been a laugh if my chest wasn't so tight.
"You sound like him."
"That's because he's right," Reese replies, sliding the shoe back. "And because doing 'your thing' isn't the answer to everything."
"What thing?"
Reese tilts her head. "Ignore."
My throat tightens.
Reese reaches for a cream-colored clutch on a shelf, flips it open, examines the stitching. "Are you ready for tonight?"
Tonight.
The gala.
The charity fundraiser Vivian has been reminding me about every morning.
"I have to be," I say.
Reese's mouth twists. Not a smile. Something sharper. "He's going to be a saint in public."
I don't respond.
Because she's right.
Rodney's public kindness is its own kind of cruelty—proof that if he wanted to be good, he could.
He just doesn't want to.
Reese lowers her voice, eyes flicking to my security detail without looking at them directly. "If you need me tonight, text me. Don't wait until you're you know."
I nod once.
We drift through the store a little longer, talking about nothing. Reese points out a dress she thinks would photograph well.
All the while, the thought sits in the back of my mind like a secret bruise:
I haven't been back to Grant.
And I hate that I miss the room.
The White House is a museum that breathes.
Every hallway feels like history watching you walk through it. Every corner feels like someone important once stood there and decided the world would remember them.
And soon—after the first hundred days—Rodney and I won't just visit it.
We'll live here.
Full time.
The idea sits in my stomach like a stone.
There are parts of it that sound like safety if you squint.
More staff. More eyes. Less privacy.
And maybe—maybe—less opportunity for Rodney to be Rodney.
At home, violence can happen in silence. Here, even silence feels supervised.
But supervision isn't the same thing as protection.
It just means if I crack, I crack in front of witnesses.
Vivian stands in my suite, clipboard in hand, already talking.
"Tan gown," she decides. "Hair pulled back. Clean. Strong. Elegant. You're going to be photographed beside donors worth more than entire industries."
A stylist pins my hair into a sleek low bun. Another smooths my gown down my torso like she's pressing me into shape.
Tan, floor-length, fitted in the right places.
I stare at my reflection.
I look perfect.
I always look perfect.
Vivian approaches with a small compact. She taps concealer beneath my jawline, near my throat, where the skin still feels tender even when it looks clean.
Her touch is brisk, professional.
She doesn't ask questions.
She doesn't ask because she doesn't want to know.
Rodney's footsteps appear before he does.
The sound of him alone changes the air.
He enters with Vivian trailing half a step behind him like an aide, not like a woman.
"Naomi," he says, voice warm.
I turn.
Smile.
Poker face.
"Rodney."
He steps close and kisses my cheek. It's gentle. Public. Perfect.
Vivian looks satisfied.
"Let's go," she says.
We head out together—Vivian, Rodney, and me—like a polished photograph walking.
Outside, Joe waits by the car, face unreadable as ever. Secret Service agents stand at attention. Paparazzi hover beyond the gate like vultures with cameras.
Rodney's hand finds the small of my back.
In front of cameras, he is a husband.
He is the kind of man mothers want their daughters to marry.
He leans close enough to whisper, "You look beautiful."
I tilt my head like I'm flattered.
"Thank you," I say softly.
None of it reaches my eyes.
The red carpet is a performance and everybody knows it.
Flashes pop like fireworks. Photographers call Rodney's name like they know him personally.
"Mr. President—right here!"
"Mrs. First Lady, look up!"
"Mrs. Housner, one more!"
Rodney's hand slides around my waist in a way that looks affectionate but feels like placement. His smile is bright enough to blind. It never reaches his eyes.
"Closer," he murmurs through his teeth, still smiling for the cameras.
I move closer.
"Chin up," he adds.
My chin lifts.
His arm tightens slightly, the perfect pose. The perfect couple. The perfect picture.
I smile and hold it until my cheeks start to ache.
Then the doors open and we step into the ballroom, and it's immediate—Rodney is pulled into conversation like he's a magnet. Donors, lawmakers, corporate names I recognize from headlines.
And every time he moves, he moves me with him.
His hand stays on me like a leash.
The room is warm with money—crystal chandeliers, white linens, soft music that never gets loud enough to interrupt anything important. It smells like perfume and expensive liquor and the kind of flowers people buy for appearances.
I float.
That's what I do now.
Smile. Nod. Float.
Inside, I feel hollow.
It's become my normal: emptiness or high anxiety. Nothing in between.
Rodney laughs at a donor's joke—loud, public, perfect—and I turn my face toward the circle.
The donor is older, heavy with confidence, pink-faced, the kind of man who thinks charm is a right. He looks at me like I came with Rodney's success, a reward.
"You're doing good work," the man says, hand on Rodney's shoulder like they're equals.
"But you've gotta keep her in check, huh? She's a pretty little thing—can't have her getting too comfortable."
He chuckles. "Wives start gaining weight when they think they're safe. That's when you've gotta remind 'em."
The circle laughs.
Men, mostly. Two women smiling too wide. A couple of people who laugh because not laughing would cost them something.
My stomach tightens.
My face does not change.
Rodney's fingers press into my waist—an invisible warning, a reminder of where my role begins and ends.
I let out a small giggle that is not real.
"Very," I say lightly, like I'm amused, like the joke didn't slice at something tender. "I'm going to the ladies room, I'll be right back."
More laughter. Easy laughter. Safe laughter.
One of the women waves a hand. "Of course, First Lady."
Rodney's hand releases me, but his eyes track me as I step away, like he's counting seconds until I return.
I keep my pace calm—heels clicking, posture straight, face composed—until I turn into the corridor leading to the women's restroom.
Only then do I exhale.
The bathroom is bright and cold and too clean. Marble counters. Gold fixtures. A row of mirrors that reflect you back the way the world likes you best—polished, perfect, unreal.
I'm halfway to the sinks when a voice floats from the far side of the room, sharp and familiar.
"She had a full-on episode," the woman is saying, her tone pitched for an audience. "I mean, it was alarming. Very unusual. I had to call Rodney right away."