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Of course they’re Secret Service. I’m grateful for their presence tonight, but now that they’re here, it means they’re here to stay until the general election in November. Two whole months. I begged the previous security detail to keep their distance, allowing some semblance of privacy. There's no way I'll convince these guys of the same. They’re hard core.

Those honey brown eyes pause their scan to meet mine.

I attempt a convincing smile, but a sharp pain slices through my head, turning it into a grimace.

“Knew you'd be full of drama,” he mutters under his breath, which happens to be by my ear, as we step through an open door into the lobby. “You politicians will do anything for publicity.”

Seriously? Him fucking too?

I'm so damn tired of people thinking they know me based on what they see. I thought being here, looking like this, changing my background would make people see me as an equal. But instead it’s another set of judgments, different stigma for people to assume.

How do I change someone’s perspective if they assume who I am instead of learning for themselves? If people continue to tell me who I am based on what they see, why should I keep fighting to prove them wrong?

Chapter Seven

Randi

“Isaid I'm fine,” I say with a sigh as the doctor sticks a metal contraption inside my ears. “My head hurts, my palms sting from the cuts, but that's it.”

“You're not fine,” the woman says again. The same words have been exchanged several times over the past hour. “Considering I'm the one with a medical degree in this room, we’ll stick withmyassessment over yours.”

“Whatever,” I grumble and lie back on the soft bedding, my legs dangling over the end. I nibble on the bright red-painted nail of my middle finger.

On the other side of the bedroom door, distorted male voices draw my attention. No one has mentioned anything regarding the wreck, which is fucking irritating. Add in my pounding head, which Miss ‘I'm right because I have a medical degree’ diagnosed as a mild concussion, and I'm on the sharp edge between holding it together and losing my ever-loving shit.

“Someone will need to wake you up every few hours tonight,” the woman says more to the tablet in her hand than me. “Do you have someone?”

“No, it's just me.”

Her gaze slowly rises from the screen, brow arched. “What about Mr. Birmingham? When will he be by?”

Fire ignites my blood, and I harden my features, narrowing my eyes into menacing glare. “He won't come by because he doesn't live here.”

“Sorry, I just assumed….”

Of course that’s what she assumed since the media has spewed tidbits about our fake relationship across every news channel. This is the part I hate the most about the lies we leaked to the press.

“Your assumption is wrong.” Elbow digging into the duvet, I push myself up. I squint as the doctor splits, morphing into two people. “Doc, did you happen to clone yourself in the last two seconds?”

Both doctors frown. “Upgrading that concussion to severe.”

When the two doctors mold back into one, I sit up straight on the bed. “When will someone update me on tonight?”

“As soon as we're done.”

I flick my gaze to the closed door. “Then we're done. Leave a list of what I need to do tonight for the concussion, and I'll set my alarm.”

“You really need someone to—”

“Well, lady,” I say, pushing off the bed to stand. Tightening the sash of my long-sleeve terry cloth robe, I step toward the door. “I'm used to doing this thing called life on my own, so I'll figure it out.” At the door, I turn the brass knob and pull it open. I wave a hand through the air, gesturing out the door with a smile. “Thank you for your help tonight. Contact my admin for payment.” Because on top of the wardrobe coordinators, I also employ an admin to handle bills, flights, personal errands, and who knows what else.

With a huff, she storms out of the room. Without looking into the craziness of the living room, I slam the door shut behind the doctor and lean against it. A few bruises, cuts, and a concussion aren’t too bad considering my end of the limo was crushed.

I chew on a manicured nail as I shuffle toward the en suite bathroom. For an additional layer of protection against… everyone, I lock the bathroom door behind me. The marble vanity digs against my lower belly as I lean closer to the mirror, inspecting the wounds for myself.

I tilt my head one way and then the other. The image follows. It’s me—I’m not that crazy—but the woman staring back at me doesn’t look like me.

The woman in the mirror strongly resembles a brunette Lindsay Lohan mug shot after an all-night bender.