14. #2
I've known Vivian for years. She's been around since before Rodney even considered running. She knows every schedule, every appearance, every piece of damage control.
But she's also worked for Rodney far longer than she's worked for me.
And loyalty like hers usually follows power.
Not the person married to it.
I search her eyes, trying to decide how much of that concern is real.
How much is strategy.
"I promise," I say, sticking to my earlier excuse. "It was just my mom. Nothing else."
She holds my gaze for a moment longer.
The silence between us isn't hostile.
Just loaded.
Like she knows I'm not telling the whole truth, but she's choosing not to push.
Not today.
Finally, she lets go of my arm.
"Alright," she says, her voice returning to its usual professional tone. "Let's get you upstairs. We've got a flight to catch."
Just like that, the moment disappears.
We walk through the doors, back into the machinery of schedules and appearances and carefully managed smiles.
And I can't tell if Vivian just gave me a warning.
Or a lifeline.
By the time we land in Kentucky, I feel like I've lived three separate days in one.
The flight is short, but it's still enough time for hair, makeup, a schedule review, and a quick change into the outfit Taylor insists photographs best under ballroom lighting.
Everything is smooth. Efficient. Controlled.
Exactly the way Rodney likes it.
The hotel is already secured when we arrive. Agents move ahead of us, checking corners and elevators. By the time I step into my suite, the curtains are half drawn, my luggage is waiting by the closet, and a tray of fruit sits on the small dining table like a peace offering.
Vivian runs through the dinner details one last time before she leaves.
"Two hours," she says. "Then glam will come up. The car will be downstairs at six-thirty."
I nod. "Okay."
She studies me for a second, like she wants to say something else. Then she just gives a short nod and slips out.
The door clicks shut behind her.
I kick off my shoes and walk to the window. The view overlooks the river, gray water stretching under a pale sky. It's not pretty, exactly, but it's peaceful.
My phone buzzes in my hand.
Rodney.
My stomach tightens automatically.
I answer on the second ring. "Hi."
"Where were you this morning?" he asks. "Your instructor notified me that you didn't attend class."
No greeting. No small talk. Just the question.
I move toward the couch and sit down slowly. "Sorry?"
"I also got a call saying Secret Service lost eyes on you for over twelve hours," he says. "That doesn't usually happen."
My grip tightens around the phone. "I told Vivian. I was at my mom's."
He hums softly. "You should've told someone before you left."
"I didn't realize it would turn into a whole situation," I say carefully. "I just needed a few hours."
There's a pause on the line.
I can practically feel him thinking.
"Well," he says finally, "just make sure it doesn't happen again. It looks bad."
Looks bad.
Not that could've ended dangerous or we were concerned.
Just bad for the image.
"I understand," I say.
Another pause.
"How's Kentucky?" he asks, like he just remembered I'm a person.
"Fine. We just got in. I have a dinner tonight."
"Good. Press will of course be there. Stay on message."
"I will."
Silence again.
"I'll be in D.C. all week. Back-to-back meetings."
"Okay."
He doesn't ask when I'm coming back.
Doesn't ask if I'm tired, or nervous, or anything at all.
"Alright," he says. "I've got to run."
"Bye, Rodney."
The line clicks dead.
I stare at my phone for a moment, the screen going dark in my hand.
It's strange.
I drop my phone on the couch beside me and lean back, staring at the ceiling.
The room is still quiet.
But now my thoughts are loud again.
And there's only one person I want to talk to.
Before I can overthink it, I grab my phone and open our thread.
My thumb hovers over the screen.
The message sends before I can second-guess it.
I stare at the screen, heat creeping up my neck.
Is this our dynamic now?
Can I just text him like that?
My phone buzzes almost immediately.
My stomach flips.
I type quickly.
The second I send it, I cringe.
Why did I add the lol?
I'm about to toss my phone onto the couch when it buzzes again.
I stare at the message.
And for the first time all day, something in my chest feels lighter.
"Okay," I whisper to myself.
I set the phone down on the table beside the couch and lean back, staring at the ceiling again.
Waiting.
My phone buzzes again twenty-three minutes later.
Grant.
I sit up straighter before I answer.
"Hello?"
"Hey," he says. His voice sounds different than it does in person. Softer. "You okay?"
"Yeah. I just got to the hotel. I left for Kentucky."
"How is Kentucky treating you so far?"
"I've seen exactly one hallway and a fruit tray," I say. "So... pretty exciting stuff."
He huffs a quiet laugh. "I couldn't imagine Kentucky to have much going on."
I shift on the couch, tucking my feet under me.
"What about you?" I ask. "How's being the city's favorite therapist?"
"I wouldn't say favorite, but I just finished paperwork and a very intense couples session."
"Which was worse?"
"The couple," he says. "They both thought I was on the other person's side."