Page 5 of The Illusion of Power (Passion and Politics #1)

SELENE

I prefer my hair curly.

Decades of begging my mama for relaxers or the burn of a hot comb and being denied every time had left me with no choice but to appreciate the volume and fluff of my natural hair, to learn how to wash, deep condition, detangle and style it without getting overwhelmed by the feel of products on my hands and wet hair clinging to my neck and shoulders.

By the time Aubrey established his campaign fund, I’d mastered the art of the wash and go, using only two products to give myself perfectly defined curls that lasted all week long.

I was loathe to give those curls up, to subject myself to the hell of finding a stylist who could keep my hair straight while maintaining the health and integrity of the curls underneath, to set aside a day out of every week all so I could fit the mold Jordan St. James told me I needed to exist inside if I wanted to be accepted as America’s next First Lady.

Can you imagine?

A red-headed white woman without of hint of a wave or whisper of a kink in her hair sitting in my face touting the power of the silk press and sliding me a list of salons she thought would be able to meet my needs.

As if she had a clue in the world what my needs were.

As if she cared.

Like most conversations between me and Jordan, the one about my hair turned into an unnecessary argument.

The two of us locking horns, both of us relentless and unyielding, reminding me that if any other circumstance had brought her into my life, Jordan would have been a friend of mine.

I admired her confidence, how she pushed and pushed until she got what she wanted.

I just hated when I was the one she was pushing, especially when it was on behalf of Aubrey.

In the end, I didn’t consider any of the salons Jordan suggested.

Instead, I asked Monique to make me an appointment with the stylist she’s been going to for years: Diane Hastings, an old-school hairdresser with a shop on 7th street that’s just a short walk from the Shaw-Howard metro stop.

I was skeptical at first—about the other clients I’d have to encounter or the small talk I’d have to endure while Diane coaxed my hair into submission—but after years of being a regular, and receiving the gift of an after hours appointment with minimal chatting from Diane, I’ve come to appreciate the routine of it all, to value the sacredness of this space.

Which is why it feels like such a violation for Jordan St. James to waltz in here and take a seat in the chair across from me like she’s waiting for someone to press her hair.

Diane goes still, her hand hovering over the handle of the marcel irons warming in their holders. “I don’t know if you missed the sign out there, little girl, but we’re closed,” she says, her tone all sass and censure.

Jordan’s eyes narrow with humor as she flips straight, red tresses over her shoulder. “I’m here for Selene, not your services.”

Diane huffs, and out of the corner of my eye, I see her hands move to her hips. “Doesn’t change the fact that the sign on the door says closed. And how’d you get past those big, burly men in black outside? I thought they were supposed to stop randoms from getting too close to Mrs. Taylor .”

I knew I liked Diane as soon as I met her.

She’s a straight shooter who has never flirted with the idea of holding her tongue.

But when Jordan’s emerald eyes start to glitter with discomfort, I decide I might love her.

I’ve only ever seen Jordan completely at ease, confident in her ability to own the attention and command the actions of every person around her.

Seeing her like this, questioning the validity of her presence in this space, is refreshing, and I don’t mind if that makes me petty.

“It’s okay, Diane. Jordan is my husband’s campaign manager.”

“Which is why the men in black had no problem letting me through,” she says, flashing a condescending smile at the older woman fuming behind me, already fully recovered from the rare bout of feeling like she doesn’t belong.

“Feel free to continue your work, Mrs. Hastings. I don’t want to interrupt. ”

I arch a brow. “Too late for that, don’t you think?”

Diane huffs her agreement, but she resumes her work.

Jordan watches with a distant kind of interest as Diane parts out another section of hair and picks up the marcels.

The first bit of residual heat tickles my scalp before the iron glides down my blown-out strands, turning them into silken midnight.

Most of the time, there’s a kind of peace to be found in the monotony of the process. The parting, combing, and pressing.

But with Jordan here, that peace is eluding me.

I feel exposed. Like I’m standing in the street with only half of my clothes on and someone I don’t know or trust is watching me struggle to make myself presentable, taking pleasure in seeing me out of sorts.

A pang of annoyance runs through me as I realize that’s probably why Jordan chose to corner me here. She could have done it anywhere. At my home. In the offices of Culture Code. Hell, in my inbox. But she came here to send me a message: I’m in control, and you’re not.

“What do you want, Jordan?”

She tilts her head to the side, taking her time bringing her eyes back to my face. “Oh, I think you already know the answer to that, Selene.”

“Aubrey Taylor in the Oval Office,” I repeat the mantra I’ve been reciting and had recited to me for years now, my intonation flat and emotionless. “That still doesn’t explain why you’re here.”

“Do you still want it?” Jordan asks. “Do you still want your husband in the Oval, Selene?”

My nostrils flare. I hate being interrogated, especially when the questions are as pointless as this one.

Every day of my life for the past four years has been this campaign.

I’ve lived it, breathed it, bled for it .

Sacrificed my dignity and pride all because I believe in the man I married and the good we can do for this country.

“Of course, I want Aubrey in the Oval.”

Jordan brings her hands to the lapels of her blazer, adjusting it slightly even though there’s not a button or single thread out of place. “Prove it.”

If Diane wasn’t currently holding hot metal to my head, I would have given in to the urge to let my head fly back in offense. Because I can’t do that without getting burned, I allow the outrage to show on my face.

“Do you know who you’re talking to?” Her lips part, but I wave my hand to stop her. “No, don’t answer that. In fact, don’t say anything else right now. I’ll let you know when you can speak again. Are we clear?”

There’s a grimace riding high on the lines of Jordan’s brows, and she nods like I need her permission to continue.

“From the moment Aubrey hired you, all I’ve done is prove that our goal is the same.

I have ceded control of my life, my image—” I lift a hand, waving my fingers to indicate my rapidly transforming strands “—my hair. I’ve smiled when you told me to smile, dressed how you told me to dress, kissed babies I didn’t even want to hold, hosted a fundraiser on my son’s birthday instead of visiting his grave, rearranged my schedule and my life for appearances and meetings and every other event you have deemed it necessary for me to attend.

Most recently, that had me canceling a launch for a product I’ve been working on since before anyone in the world knew who Aubrey Taylor was and standing beside my husband while he admitted to the world he cheated on me. ”

Diane scoffs, disgust riddled through the sound.

It’s her preferred way to communicate her disdain for Aubrey.

A scoff, a deep sigh, a roll of her eyes.

Other than that, she stays quiet about it, letting me use her shop as the one place where I can hide from the world that’s still talking about my husband’s infidelity.

“Everyone likes to imagine that the man in the chair is the one who makes all the sacrifices, but we both know better, Jordan. We know it’s the people behind him who give up everything, and I have given up everything.

There is nothing left for me to prove.” I take a beat, pausing to make sure she has fully absorbed my point before saying, “ Now , you may speak.”

Jordan doesn’t respond immediately. I don’t expect her to because that would be too much like obeying a person she views as her subordinate.

I wait her out, refusing to repeat myself, hoping maybe she’ll get up and leave, that she’ll go home and think of another, more appropriate time and place to broach this subject with me.

Of course, I don’t have that kind of luck.

“I appreciate your candor, Selene. Really, I do, but you’re wrong.”

“About?”

“Having nothing left to prove.”

Diane is working on the front, left side of my head now, so I reach up and grab my ear, folding the top of it down onto itself to ensure it doesn’t get burned.

“What is it you think I still have to prove?”

“Your love,” she says, crossing her legs.

“I’m not sure I understand,” I confess, threads of irritation burning through me as I search for the nuance I’m certain has evaded me.

It’s not uncommon for me to struggle to wade through subterfuge and get to the true meaning of what’s being said.

Jordan knows I prefer clear and concise communication, so I’m not sure why she’s being vague about her point.

“Aubrey cheated on me,” I continue. “How does that equate to my emotional commitment being called into question?”