Chapter 10
Ten
“Morning,” I say, shedding my coat with a grace that masks the fact that my spine feels like it’s being held together by rusted staples.
“Morning,” echoes back from three different directions.
Ethan, our newest intern—straight out of Stanford and vibrating with the kind of terrifying potential that makes me want to either mentor or fire him—scrambles to his feet at the reception desk.
“We missed you yesterday, Ms. Callahan,” he blurts out.
I dip my chin, adjusting my bag. “I missed me too, Ethan. How are you settling in?”
“Great,” he says, grinning. “I love the pace.”
“Good,” I tell him. “If you stop loving it, this place will eat you alive. Keep your head down and your ears open.”
He laughs, unsure if I’m joking.
I’m not.
My assistant, Hazel, falls into step beside me as I head for the conference room. Hazel is the only person in Los Angeles who knows my calendar better than I do and my moods better than anyone I’ve ever dated.
“Boardroom’s ready,” she says, her iPad glowing. “Legal’s here in person. Two advisors are on video from D.C. Communications hasn’t stopped sweating since 8:00 a.m.”
“Shocking. I’ll bring them a towel.”
She lowers her voice as we approach the frosted glass doors. “I finished the deep dive you asked for on Senator Reece.”
“And?”
“Clean so far,” she starts. “Former college quarterback. A bit of a playboy in his twenties, but nothing predatory. Married young. Three kids. No offshore accounts or financial funny business. He’s a quiet donor to a women’s shelter in Oakland and funds a scholarship program at his old high school. No public fanfare.”
I glance at her, impressed. “No skeletons? Not even a stray bone?”
“Not even a rib from a rack of lamb, but we’ll keep digging.”
Good. I don’t clean up for monsters. I don’t care how high the retainer is; I choose my clients based on whether I can look myself in the mirror. I sleep better knowing I’m not helping a predator stay in power.
Inside the conference room, the atmosphere tightens the second I cross the threshold.
Grant Ellis looks up from his seat at the table.
He’s senior counsel and West Coast political royalty.
He’s also someone I dated briefly last year before we realized we preferred winning arguments to compromising over dinner plans.
“Madison,” he says, his lips curving into a familiar shark-like smile. “Still terrifying, I see.”
“Grant,” I reply, taking the seat at the head of the table. I lower myself slowly, praying no one hears the audible creak of my vertebrae. “Still pretending this isn’t a Category Five hurricane?”
I get a few weak smiles and a lot of swallowed nerves in return. Grant is the one who called me. He knows exactly why I’m the only one who can fix this.
“I’ll get straight to it,” I say, clicking the remote.
The screen behind me freezes on the now-infamous moment: Senator David Reece, the “Family Values” candidate, flipping off a reporter as he exits a fundraiser.
“This was forty-eight hours ago. This should’ve peaked and died by now.”
I click the slide to a still from later that night. It’s the same senator, but he’s holding a glass of champagne, captured mid-laugh at a donor event. The audio reveals that he was joking about the gesture he’d made earlier.
Idiot.
A ripple of discomfort runs through the room.
“That,” I continue, tapping the screen, “was the mistake. The finger was an impulse. The joke was a choice. It makes him look arrogant, not just stressed.”
Someone clears their throat. “With respect, Madison, he was provoked—”
I lift a hand. “No.”
Silence drops instantly.
“You didn’t hire me to explain his feelings. You hired me to prevent this from becoming his political obituary.”
I click to a slide with draft headlines.
SENATOR REECE CANCELS APPEARANCES FOLLOWING ‘MOMENT OF POOR JUDGMENT’
REECE STEPS BACK FROM SPOTLIGHT AFTER OFFENSIVE GESTURE
“He will not do interviews,” I tell them, my eyes scanning the room. “He will not joke. He will not attend fundraisers. He will release one statement—written by me—and then he will disappear for ten days.”
One of the advisors frowns. “He’s being touted as a future presidential candidate. He needs to be seen.”
I nod slowly. “Exactly. Which is why he’s going to go quiet. Absence makes the public forget. Persistence makes them resentful. You are all going to do exactly as I say, or I’m walking out that door and letting the social media mob finish him off.”
The room holds its breath. I click again, revealing a timeline.
“Outrage peaks at seventy-two hours. After that, it needs oxygen to survive. We are cutting off the air supply. We reach out to the reporter privately. No cameras. Be respectful. Offer her an exclusive in six months. She got flipped off for doing her goddamn job. Reece should have apologized before I even got the call.”
Grant watches me closely, something like admiration, or maybe just the ghost of an old flame, flickering across his face.
“And social media?” a junior advisor asks.
“We don’t engage,” I reply. “Silence is discipline. If we don’t feed the trolls, they move on to the next shiny disaster.”
The meeting breaks quickly after that. No one argues once I draw the line. They never do. It’s my gift and my curse.
As the room clears, Grant lingers. “God, you’re beautiful when you’re in total control,” he rasps, leaning against the mahogany table.
“I like results, Grant,” I correct, arching a brow. “Now stop flirting with your consultant and get out of my boardroom. You have a legal brief to hide.”
He smiles, raising his hands. “Yes, Ma’am.”
“And Grant?” He turns at the door. “If I find even a hint of anything ugly on him, I’m dropping him flat on his face. I don’t care if he’s your best friend.”
He nods. “He’s a good man, Madi. Just a hothead.”
“Yeah, that’s what I’m worried about.”
Outside, Hazel hands me a steaming cup of coffee. God, I love this woman.
“You’re booked solid,” she says. “Two corporate implosions. One nonprofit board crisis. And a tech CEO insisting that his assistant’s resignation is totally unrelated to the lawsuit.”
I grimace as I take a sip. “Add the CEO to the maybe pile. He sounds like a liar.”
She nods, then pauses to study my face. “You look tired.”
“I’m fine.”
She raises an eyebrow, her gaze dropping to where I’m leaning heavily against the desk. “You were sitting through the entire presentation. You never sit.”
“It’s temporary. A yoga casualty.”
She lets it go, but the look she gives me says she knows I’m human, even if I’m pretending I’m made of marble. I glance around the office—the glass walls, the people moving with frantic purpose. Sometimes this job feels soulless, cleaning up after powerful men who should know better.
But sometimes, I stop a bad moment from becoming a permanent stain. Sometimes, I decide who gets a second chance.
Like a message from the universe, a sharp twinge in my lower back reminds me I’m not invincible. I glance down at my feet and at the shoes I changed into the moment I got out of my car.
I’m wearing flats. Black, sensible, soul-crushing flats.
Jesus Christ. I really am in a crisis.