5. #2
My steps slow.
That voice.
Lysbeth Harris.
I know it because I've heard it on the phone, in articles, in whispered conversations. A CEO with hair always set, lipstick always perfect, and a smile that never fails even when her eyes are judging you.
I round the corner.
Five women stand together near the mirrors like they own the space—silver vixens in expensive gowns, jewelry flashing under the lights.
And the second they see me, the conversation dies.
Like a radio turned off.
Lysbeth's smile appears instantly—bright, plastic, automatic.
"Madam First Lady," she says, voice syrupy. "You look beautiful tonight."
Five pairs of eyes sweep over me.
They don't look at my face.
"Thank you," I say softly. "Excuse me."
I walk past them to the stalls like I didn't hear a word.
Like my chest didn't tighten.
Like my throat didn't remember hands.
I lock myself inside a stall and stare at the door.
My body waits for impact even in silence.
When I step out a minute later, the women are trickling away in a slow wave, pretending they weren't talking about me like I was an odd headline.
Lysbeth lingers the longest, adjusting her earrings in the mirror as if she's fixing something important. When I move to the sink, she finally leaves too, heels clicking for punctuation.
I wash my hands slowly.
My fingers tremble once, then still.
I lift my gaze to the mirror and meet my own eyes.
And then the door opens again.
A familiar voice cuts through the bathroom's emptiness with a brightness that feels real.
"Naomi!"
I turn.
Isabel steps in like a ray of sunlight—dress a soft green that makes her skin glow, hair curled, cheeks flushed from the party. She spots me immediately and her face lights up.
"You look amazing," she says, like she means it, not like she's reciting lines. She crosses the room and hugs me before I can stop her.
The hug is quick, warm, normal.
It hits me harder than it should.
I return it, and for the first time tonight my smile is real.
"Hi," I say, my voice softening. "You look beautiful."
Isabel pulls back, still beaming. "Thank you. Oh my God, I've done so much small talk out there I'm exhausted." She laughs at herself, shaking her head.
"What are you doing here?" I ask, and I hear genuine curiosity in my own voice. It surprises me.
I've only spoken to Isabel in passing—hellos, scheduling, polite smiles—but she's always felt sweet. Like she doesn't know how to be fake even when the room requires it.
Isabel shrugs like it's no big deal. "Grant's on the host committee," she says. "He's kind of a known clinician in D.C. at this level." She says it like it's obvious, like the world has always made sense this way. "He brings me sometimes. He thinks it's a good opportunity for me to network."
"That's sweet," I say, and I mean it. "And he's right. It's a good opportunity."
My stomach twists anyway.
Because my mind jumps straight to the worst scenario.
Grant greeting me in front of Rodney.
Rodney asking questions.
Me having to explain how I know him.
My life turning into a problem I can't fix.
I dry my hands slowly, buying time.
"I should get back out there," I say, keeping my tone light. "My schedule has been all over the place, but I'll try to book an appointment soon."
Isabel's smile softens, like she hears the hesitation under my words. "No pressure," she says easily. "We're there whenever you're ready."
I nod, grateful for the way she doesn't make it heavy.
"Okay," I say.
I take one last look at the mirror before I leave.
Poker face back in place.
As I walk out of the bathroom, I can already feel the ballroom's noise swallowing me whole again.
I spot Rodney before I reach him because he's always the center of whatever circle he's in. Tonight he's mid-story, hand moving as he talks, smile wide, laughter easy—like he's the kind of man strangers trust on instinct.
He isn't.
I weave through bodies with practiced grace, shoulders back, chin lifted, gown gliding at my ankles. A few people glance at me as I pass. Some nod. Some smile too big.
I return every expression on cue.
Rodney doesn't even turn until I'm beside him.
Then his arm slides around my waist like it never left.
His hand settles low—too low to be romantic, too deliberate to be accidental—and his fingers bite into my side with a squeeze that hurts just enough to remind me he can.
He leans in, lips still curved for the people in front of us.
"Where were you?" he murmurs into my ear.
The question is soft.
The threat is not.
I keep my smile steady. "I told you I needed to go to the bathroom," I say lightly, like we're any other couple at a gala and not a secret war disguised as marriage.
Rodney's fingers tighten once more.
The men around him keep talking. A donor laughs. Someone mentions a bill. Someone mentions a private meeting next week.
Rodney nods like he's hearing everything.
But his focus is on me.
"Bathroom," he repeats, quiet.
"Yes," I say, still smiling. Still performing.
His breath brushes my ear. "You were gone a while."
"I ran into someone," I say, choosing the safest truth. "And I didn't want to be rude."
Rodney's hand relaxes by a fraction—enough to pass as affection again. He turns his head slightly, scanning the room over my shoulder.
"Who?" he asks.
The word is simple.
But my stomach drops anyway.
I don't answer too fast. I don't answer too slow. I keep my tone casual.
"Lysbeth Harris," I say, as if it doesn't matter. "She said hello."
Rodney's grip pauses.
Not tight.
Not loose.
Just still.
He doesn't react outwardly. He's too trained for that.
He squeezes my waist again, gentler this time, the kind of squeeze people would call protective.
But I know Rodney.
When he's gentle in public, it's because he's saving something for later.
The conversation shifts. Someone mentions "the importance of optics" and "keeping America strong." Rodney laughs and shakes hands.
I nod when I'm supposed to. Smile when I'm supposed to. Say the small supportive wife lines Vivian drilled into me until they felt like muscle memory.
All the while, my eyes scan the room without meaning to.
Not searching.
Just aware.
Aware of where exits are. Where cameras are. Where safety might be if safety existed in a room like this.
My gaze catches on a figure across the ballroom.
Tall. Broad shoulders. Dark hair.
Grant.
He's not looking for me.
He's standing near a group of donors, posture easy, expression calm—the kind of calm that belongs to people who know they can leave whenever they want. He's dressed well, not flashy. He looks like someone who has learned how to exist in rooms full of power without trying to compete with it.
Like he belongs.
Then—like he feels my eyes—Grant turns his head.
Our gazes lock.
It's only a second.
But it's enough to make my stomach flip.
Because in his office, he's contained. He's professional. He's the room. The quiet. The water.
Here, he's a man.
A man in a tux.
A man with status.
A man who looks at me like Naomi, not like First Lady.
My breath catches.
My face does not change.
I snap my gaze back to the people in front of me and smile wider like I'm listening.
But my pulse has already betrayed me.
Rodney's hand presses into my waist again, harder this time, as if he felt the shift in my body even if he didn't see the reason.
"Smile," he whispers, still smiling himself.
I smile.
Perfect.
And somewhere across the room, I feel Grant's eyes still on me for half a beat longer than they should be.
By the time the speeches end, my smile feels stapled on.
The ballroom has thinned out—donors peeling away in clusters, wives drifting toward coat checks, men loosening their ties like the one too many tequila shots they had finally kicked in.
The music softens into background again.
Staff moves faster now, clearing glasses and resetting tables with the efficiency of people who know the real work is always after the cameras leave.
Rodney is still deep in conversation, his laugh loud enough to travel.
He doesn't notice the way my shoulders have tightened.
He doesn't notice the way my feet ache.
Or maybe he does and doesn't care.
I drift, carefully, toward the bar.
The bartender recognizes me immediately—of course he does—and reaches for champagne without asking.
I nod once.
A flute appears in front of me. I wrap my fingers around the stem and take a small sip that tastes like cold bubbles and nothing.
I pull my phone out purely to give myself something to look at.
Bianca has already texted twice.
Reese once.
I don't open either.
I'm halfway through pretending to scroll when a deep voice beside me says, casual as a breath, "Rum and coke."
My spine goes rigid before my mind catches up.
I don't look up right away.
I keep my gaze on the screen like if I don't see him, he won't exist.
But I can feel him.
The space he takes up. The calm he carries. The way the air shifts when someone else enters your orbit.
The bartender asks for a name.
"Grant," the man says.
My pulse jumps.
I look up because there's no point pretending now.
Grant is already looking at me.