8. #2
It's strange, the things that make you feel alive when you've been operating on autopilot.
A man I shouldn't want to see.
A room where I get to tell the truth in pieces.
A week without him that made me feel like I'd been knocked out of alignment.
I open my eyes and force my face blank again.
Reese is coming. Reese will read me like she always does, and I don't have the energy to manage that right now. I don't have the energy to be someone else.
A sound from the front of the house cuts through my thoughts.
Footsteps.
Muted voices.
Then the soft chime of the doorbell.
My body reacts before my mind does—shoulders lifting, breath catching.
I make myself exhale.
It's Reese. It's Reese. It's Reese.
I walk toward the front door, bare feet quiet on the floor.
One of the agents is already there, checking the camera panel.
"Ms. Callahan," he says.
Of course.
Even Reese has to be verified.
Even Reese has to be approved.
The door opens, and Reese steps inside—coat open, hair perfect, face set.
She's holding a bottle of red wine in one hand like a weapon and a peace offering at the same time.
"Oh my God," she says, eyes sweeping me from head to toe. "Look at you."
"What about me?" I ask, forcing lightness.
Reese lifts a brow. "I haven't seen you outside of work in like two months."
I huff a laugh, the sound small.
Reese steps closer and pulls me into a hug before I can brace for it. It's firm, not delicate. Like she's reminding my body what it feels like to be held without conditions.
"You okay?" she asks into my hair.
"I'm fine," I say automatically.
Reese leans back, eyes narrowing. "That's not what I asked."
I press my lips together.
Then I take the wine from her hand and hold it up like a distraction. "Don't be dramatic. Let's go to the living room."
Reese lets me dodge—because she knows I'll circle back when I'm ready.
We walk into the living room, the lights soft, the fireplace quiet in the corner. Reese drops onto the couch like it's hers. I grab two glasses from the bar cart and a corkscrew from the drawer.
I twist the corkscrew into the bottle and work it out with a small pop.
The sound is louder than it should be.
Reese watches me pour.
"Have you seen Rodney today?" she asks casually.
"Briefly." My voice stays even. "Just when we woke up this morning."
I hand her a glass.
Reese takes it and a sip, then looks at me over the rim.
"He's an ass," she says flatly.
I sit in the chair across from her, legs tucked beneath me, glass resting in my hands.
"Reese—"
"No," she cuts in, voice calm but edged. "I'm serious. He's an ass and he's getting worse, Naomi. My job has literally been hell on earth these last two months.
I keep my face neutral.
"Something happen?" I ask.
Reese leans forward, elbows on her knees. "We were in the West Wing corridor. Vivian was there. Two comms guys. Rodney walks up and—" She exhales sharply, annoyed even remembering it. "I don't even want to go over it again. He's just a nightmare. Sorry but not really."
"I'm sorry girl," I speak. "I wish I could make up an excuse for him, but that's just how he is."
The wine is dark, almost black.
I swirl it like I know what I'm doing.
Reese softens a fraction. "You shouldn't have to live like this," she says, quieter.
I take a sip. "Can we not talk about Rodney," I let out an awkward laugh. "I'd really love a Rodney free few hours."
The words sit between us like a fragile object neither of us wants to drop.
The truth is, Reese knows Rodney's temper.
Reese knows his control.
She knows because she's seen it—not through rumors, not through headlines, but through moments that were too real to deny.
He hit me once in front of her.
Just once.
Like he needed an audience.
Like he wanted me to know I wasn't protected even when I wasn't alone.
Reese doesn't know everything.
She doesn't know how often my body leaves the room when he touches it.
She doesn't know how carefully I monitor my tone, my expressions, the air between us, like I'm defusing a bomb with my eyelashes.
She doesn't know because I won't let her.
I won't hand myself over to pity.
I won't be the First Lady everyone whispers about with sad eyes and lowered voices.
I know what I'm doing.
I know why I'm still here.
My mother.
My mother's fragile health.
So I stay.
I smile.
I hold the leash and tell myself I'm the one in control because I can feel the rope in my hands.
"One day," I say instead, voice light. "It'll be fine."
Reese studies me like she can hear the lie behind my teeth.
The doorbell rings again—security confirming another vehicle at the gate. Probably staff coming to collect something, or a delivery I didn't order.
Reese tilts her head. "Who's that?"
"Probably nothing," I say automatically, then glance at my phone on the coffee table. "Staff is here."
Another buzz.
Vivian again.
I unlock it.
Three minutes.
Three minutes to sound like a woman who is whole.
I lock the phone, set it down carefully.
Reese watches me. "What now?"
I swallow.
"Mental health benefit," I say.
Reese's mouth tightens. "And Rodney?"
"Business banquet," I reply, keeping my tone neutral.
Reese lifts her glass. "Lucky you," she says dryly.
Lucky.
The word lands wrong.
I take another sip of wine anyway, letting the warmth spread.
Reese leans back into the couch, crossing her legs.
"So," she says, eyes on me, voice careful now. "Are you excited to move into the White House?"
My stomach flips at the thought.
"Excited isn't the word," I say.
Reese snorts softly. "Well, it's happening."
"It's temporary," I say quickly. "We won't even be there that often."
Reese raises a brow, amused. "Naomi."
"What?"
"It's three years," she says. "Could be longer if he runs again."
The room goes very still.
My hand tightens around my glass.
Three years.
My brain tries to reject it like a body rejecting a foreign object.
I force a smile.
"It'll be fine," I say again, because I don't know what else to say without admitting I feel like I'm about to drown.
Reese watches me for a long moment, then takes a slow sip of wine.
"Okay," she says quietly. "If you say so."
And that's the thing about Reese.
She'll let you lie.
But she never believes you.
The wine is gone by the time Reese gets ready to leave.
Reese stands at the door with her coat half-on, the same sharp, put-together woman she always is, like softness is something she saves for people who can't hurt her. She hugs me once—quick, firm.
"Text me when you get back," she says.
"I will."
Reese studies me for a beat longer, as if she's collecting information, then turns and disappears into the night with security following at a respectful distance.
The house exhales again when it's only me.
I lock the door, check the bolt, then stand there for a moment with my hand still on the knob, listening to the quiet like it might tell me something.
It doesn't.
My phone sits on the entry table. The screen is dark.
I pick the phone up and check the time.
2:12.
My stomach twists.
Two hours until glam.
Less than that until the day becomes someone else's hands on my face, someone else's brush through my hair, someone else's voice telling me what version of myself needs to show up tonight.
I go upstairs, one hand skimming the banister as I climb.
The bedroom is colder than it should be.
I change again—not into pajamas, but into something that feels more put together. Soft black leggings. A thin cashmere sweater. I brush my teeth, wash my face, do small things that make me feel like I'm still choosing something.
Downstairs, I pour a glass of water and drink it slowly at the kitchen counter while the afternoon light slants across the floor.
The quiet doesn't feel peaceful.
It feels like waiting.
At 2:58, the doorbell rings.
Right on time.
My shoulders tighten anyway.
I smooth my sweater, set my glass down, and walk toward the front door with the kind of calm that is mostly performance.
The agent at the door checks the camera panel, opens it, and suddenly my entryway is full of people.
Two makeup artists with sleek cases that look like they cost more than my first car. A hair stylist with a rolling kit. A wardrobe assistant carrying garment bags.
And Vivian, stepping in behind them.
"Hi," she says, already scanning me. "Good. You're in lounge. Perfect. We'll get you ready."
"Hi, Vivian," I say.
She's looking past me before I finish, already directing the team with quick, clipped words.
"Hair first. Naomi's makeup needs to be camera-friendly but soft. No heavy lash—she'll be on stage under warm lights, we don't want the shadowing."
The team moves into the house like they've done it a hundred times, which they have.
My skin tightens with the sudden intrusion of bodies and voices.
I step aside as they file past.
Vivian hands me her tablet without asking.
"Your remarks," she says. "They're still drafting the final version, but this is the skeleton."
I take it.
The words are clean. Polished. Safe.
So safe they feel like they could have been written for anyone.
I glance up. "Do I have to stick to this?"
Vivian's mouth twitches like she's fighting a smile. "We'd prefer you don't say anything that causes a headline. But you can personalize it. Just...don't personalize it too much."
I nod once.
It's the kind of joke that isn't a joke.
"Okay," I say.
Vivian taps her watch. "We're on a tight timeline. You'll be in the car by 5:45."
She turns and follows the team up the stairs.
I trail behind them, feeling like a ghost in my own house.
My bedroom becomes a worksite.
A chair is positioned near the window for lighting. Brushes are laid out in neat rows on the vanity. Curling irons heat up. A garment bag is hung on the closet door like a warning.
I sit in the chair because that's what they tell me to do.