7.
Rodney is still in bed when I step out of the shower.
Morning light presses through the curtains in thin, stubborn stripes, turning the room the color of weak tea. The lamps are still on low, like night hasn't officially given up. The sheets are pulled back.
He's stretched out on his side, relaxed in a way I've never learned. One arm tucked beneath his head, the other draped across the pillow like he's posing for a photograph he doesn't have to think about.
Sex with Rodney doesn't last long.
Three minutes, if I'm lucky. Five if he is.
But it always feels like longer, because I count in my head the entire time—four, five, six—waiting for it to be over, waiting for my body to stop doing that thing where it goes somewhere else so I don't have to be present for it.
I can't remember the last time I enjoyed having sex with him.
Engaged, maybe.
Back when I still believed his softness was real. Back when I thought his tenderness meant something besides ownership.
Now my body is just another item on his schedule.
I reach for my lotion and smooth it over my arms and legs with steady hands, the kind of efficiency I've been trained into. Quiet. Controlled. Nothing hurried. Nothing that looks like I'm trying to escape.
I put on a pair of black pants and a brown Miu Miu sweater. The scarf comes off, then I comb through my hair, pausing in front of the mirror long enough to decide I don't have the bandwidth for contacts. Glasses feel like an admission of fatigue, and today I can afford that kind of honesty.
I slide them on and meet my own reflection.
And then I realize I'm not alone in it.
Rodney is watching me through the mirror, eyes half-lidded, expression lazy in the way men get when they think they've already won.
"Where are you going?" he asks.
His voice is casual—too casual—like he's tossing the question across the room the way someone tosses a pillow. Like it doesn't matter even though it does. Like he's only asking because he can.
I don't flinch. I don't freeze. I don't hesitate like a guilty person.
"Meeting with Vivian," I say, slipping my watch on. "I have a fitting and a meeting at the White Housing."
Rodney glances at the clock on the nightstand.
"It's twelve," he says. "Your meeting with Vivian isn't until five."
My stomach drops so hard it feels physical—like a stone released in water.
Not on my face, though.
On my face, nothing moves.
Poker face.
I turn slightly, like I'm thinking, like I'm doing the math in real time. Like I didn't just get caught inside a lie that was supposed to be simple.
"I know," I say softly. "I wanted to stop by my mom's before I head over."
Rodney's eyes hold on mine for a beat too long.
This is the part I hate—the silent assessment, the calculation. Like he's deciding whether he believes me or whether it matters if he doesn't. Like the truth is only valuable when it serves him.
He doesn't say anything.
Which is worse, because silence from Rodney is rarely peace.
He sits up slowly, then swings his legs over the edge of the bed. He doesn't bother to put clothes on before he stands. No modesty. No shame. No need. His body takes up space because it's always allowed to.
He crosses the room toward me.
My spine tightens on instinct.
I keep my smile small. Pleasant. Harmless.
Rodney comes up behind me and slides his hands to my waist like we're lovers, like the last three minutes didn't happen the way they always do—fast, one-sided, and followed by my mind trying to clean itself out.
He presses his mouth to the side of my neck.
My skin crawls anyway.
And I can feel him, half hard already, pushing up against me like a reminder.
I force a sound that could pass for a giggle if no one is listening too closely.
"Rodney," I say, using the soft voice I reserve for trying to get my way.
His lips move up toward my ear, teeth grazing in a way that makes my breath stutter.
"We should have a baby," he murmurs.
The air in my lungs stalls.
A baby.
The word is so casual coming from him. So domestic. So permanent.
Not a question.
Not a dream.
A decision.
It lands in the room like a paperweight, heavy and ordinary at the same time—something you set down and expect to stay there forever.
I laugh once—light, bright, empty.
"A baby?" I repeat, like it's funny. Like it's flirtation. Like my insides didn't just turn cold.
Rodney's hands drift down to my abdomen. Not painful. Not yet. Just a reminder of what he thinks he owns. Just a claim made with skin instead of ink.
"Why not?" he asks.
And there it is.
The hook beneath the velvet.
I swallow and turn carefully, keeping my smile in place. Keeping my eyes soft. Keeping my tone sweet. This is performance, and I know my lines.
"Because it would be irresponsible," I say gently, like I'm teasing him. "We're just settling into these new roles. Adding a baby into the equation would make everything more complicated, you know?"
Rodney's gaze flickers.
Not confusion.
Not disappointment.
Something sharper.
Something that makes my stomach flip, because it looks like he's watching me miss a cue.
"Complicated," he repeats, tasting the word. "For who?"
"For us," I say quickly—too quickly. I hear it as soon as it leaves my mouth and soften it immediately, smoothing the edges like I can smooth this moment. "For you. For me. The public. The schedule. All of it."
Rodney doesn't smile.
He doesn't argue either.
He just watches me, and I can feel the moment stretching—him deciding where this goes, what kind of punishment he prefers today. His eyes dip to my face like he's looking for a crack. A flinch. A tremor.
I give him none.
Then his phone rings.
The sound is a mercy and a warning at the same time.
Rodney turns away and reaches for it on the nightstand, eyes still on me while he answers. Like even the call isn't important enough to look away.
"Yeah," he says. "I'm about to get ready now. I'll be there momentarily."
His voice shifts—public Rodney. Controlled. Pleasant. The kind of man people clap for. The kind of man people vote for. The kind of man who could shake hands with strangers while I'm still tasting him on my skin.
He ends the call and looks back at me.
I don't wait for permission.
I step forward and brush a kiss to his cheek—quick enough to be respectful, light enough to be harmless. The gesture of a wife who is adored. The kind the cameras love.
"Have a good day," I say, sweet.
Rodney's hand lifts, almost like he might touch my face.
It doesn't.
Instead, he just watches me.
I can feel his eyes following me as I walk toward the door, a steady pressure between my shoulder blades.
My hand stays steady on the handle.
My posture stays upright.
My face stays calm.
Even when my pulse is sprinting.
I slip out into the hallway and don't exhale until I'm far enough away that his silence can't reach me.
And only then do I let myself think it:
A baby wouldn't be love.
A baby would be a tighter leash.
I straighten my sweater, adjust my glasses, and keep moving—because if I stop, I'll feel everything.
And I don't have time for that.
The drive to Georgetown takes twenty minutes on a good day.
Today, it takes longer—because nothing in my life is allowed to be a simple line from point A to point B anymore. There are turns I don't choose. Lights I don't run even when the road is empty. A black SUV that follows at just enough distance to pretend it's coincidence.
Protection, they call it.
By the time we pull up to the Lennox Group, my jaw already aches from holding it in place.
The building is discreet in the way money is discreet—clean windows, muted stone, no flashing signage. If you didn't know what was inside, you'd think it was a private law office or a wealth management firm. Something for people who don't like leaving paper trails.
One of my agents steps out first and scans the sidewalk like we're expecting a threat to leap out of a planter.
I keep my face neutral as I exit the car.
No waving. No smiling. No performing for the morning.
Inside, the air is warm and smells faintly like citrus and expensive wood polish. The lobby is quiet. Soft instrumental music plays from somewhere I can't locate, as if the building itself is trying to regulate the nervous systems inside it.
The waiting room is minimal—low chairs, a glass coffee table with magazines that look untouched, a small vase of white flowers that probably gets replaced before the petals can even think about wilting.
I can feel eyes on me anyway.
Not from the people—there's only one woman seated near the window, scrolling on her phone with her head down.
From the room.
From the fact that I'm here.
From the fact that I shouldn't need to be.
Isabel looks up the second I step through the inner door, and her entire face brightens in a way that makes something in me loosen.
Not because she's impressed.
Because she's that type of person.
"Naomi," she says.
Her smile is open as she stands. "Hi. How are you?"
"Hi," I return automatically, voice soft. "I'm good."
It's a lie.
But it's my most polished one.
Isabel comes around the desk before I can stop her and gives me a quick hug—light, careful, like she's not trying to trap me in it.
I let myself accept it.
That's the thing about kindness. It's disarming. It makes you forget for a second to hold your breath.
"You look really nice," Isabel says as she pulls back, eyes flicking to my glasses. "I like the glasses."
"Thank you," I say, and mean it.
Isabel's gaze shifts—past me, to the men in suits lingering by the entrance. Her smile doesn't change.
She doesn't comment.
She just pivots back to me like I'm still just a person walking into an office for an appointment.
"He's finishing up with someone," she says in a lower tone, like it's a casual update. "Not a session. A meeting. But he should be out soon."
My stomach tightens at the word meeting, even though there's no reason it should.