Page 6 of The Illusion of Power (Passion and Politics #1)

Some people would think I’m being deliberately obtuse, but it’s a genuine question.

Everything I’ve done since the news of the affair broke has been in service to a love I’ve carried with me for over half my life.

I stayed in the house. I’m still wearing my ring.

I’ve refused to disparage his character in conversations with my family, friends, and the press.

Every night since I kicked him out of our bed, I’ve lain in it alone and recited the list of all the good things Aubrey has ever done for me.

I haven’t just proven my love for Aubrey, I’ve fought to hold on to it. I’ve held vigil for it, waiting for answers and healing that might never come.

Jordan sighs, and her lips twitch. Impatience, my brain screams, supplying me with the name of the emotion I’ve come to associate with the micro expression.

“Aubrey is the first Democrat in years to run a campaign that focuses so heavily on family values. I tried to talk him out of it. You see, it’s a hard sell when there are no little Aubreys or Selenes running around to really drive home the whole family part. But he insisted on it because?—”

“Because not running on family values would have precluded him from talking about our son’s death every chance he got,” I finish for her, not bothering to address the subtle dig about Aubrey and me not having more children.

It’s been a point of contention between my husband and me for as long as I can remember, and now it’s a regular topic in campaign strategy meetings, the nightly news, and trashy tabloid articles that speculate about whether we’ll have a ‘save the marriage baby’ soon.

Jordan doesn’t so much as bristle at the suggestion. One of the things that makes her the best at what she does is that she doesn’t balk at indelicacy. Part of me thinks she thrives on it, that she loves the way it gives her permission to be indelicate as well.

“Exactly.” She nods, and the smile she flashes at me is broad, reaching her eyes.

I don’t know Jordan’s expressions as well as I know Aubrey’s or Monique’s, but I recognize this smile, and it’s as close to pride or admiration as Jordan gets.

It tells me she appreciates my continued understanding of the way politics work.

“Speaking on AJ’s death has helped Aubrey maintain his family man image. ”

“Aubrey,” I correct, my voice hard. “Don’t call him AJ. You didn’t know him. You never met him. You don’t get to call him AJ.”

My son hated being called AJ.

He always introduced himself to strangers as Aubrey, and if he had been around to meet Jordan, he wouldn’t have allowed her to call him by anything other than that.

Only a select few people were permitted to use the nickname, and some days, I think it still bothered him when we did.

Aubrey thinks it’s stupid that I’ve grown so protective of the moniker, that I would fume and rage when he used it in a speech, when I saw it written in the papers, or heard it passing through the lips of complete strangers, but I didn’t care then and I don’t care now.

That name, those letters, the boy they represent, it’s all a sacred covenant I won’t tolerate the desecration of.

“Aubrey,” Jordan repeats, dipping her head in acknowledgment even as her lips tighten with the need to tell me that not using the nickname makes it harder to differentiate between my husband and son in conversation.

I lift my brows, inviting her to say the words so we can reenact the last time she said that to me, and I told her the solution to that problem was for her to never speak about my son again.

She pushes the words back down and clears her throat before continuing. “My point is, the family unit we’re selling the world is only comprised of two people: you and Aubrey, and if things with you two continue the way they have, then we’re going to keep losing customers.”

I don’t like metaphors, especially when they make me sound like a thing to be consumed and frame people who should be focused on making the right choice for their futures as grubby-handed vultures vying for the most popular thing, but I think I understand what Jordan is saying.

Aubrey has taken a hit in the polls recently, and I’m guessing the independent data she has compiled has identified the specific demographic he’s lost the most of.

Silently, I run through and eliminate the possibilities.

If he’d been losing ground with white men, she’d be overseeing a photo shoot on a golf course with Aubrey, his brothers—Timothy and Simon—and their father, Arthur.

If older white women were turning their backs on him, Jordan would be coordinating a string of appearances for him to attend with his mother, Hillary, as his date.

But she’s not doing any of that.

She’s here with me, which can only mean one thing.

“Aubrey’s losing the Black vote.”

Diane covers her laugh with a cough, but she doesn’t say a word. If I didn’t know she’d signed an ironclad NDA, I’d suspect that she was saving all of her commentary for someone else.

Jordan nods. “Black women, specifically. They’re having a hard time forgiving him for the infidelity, for hurting you.”

I would ask why they care, but we’ve gone over parasocial relationships a million times already.

Despite working in tech, I’ll never quite understand the Internet’s ability to make complete strangers feel like they know you just because they’ve absorbed every moment of your life that’s been posted across various platforms. Some of them so heavily edited, so perfectly curated, they don’t even resemble what you lived through.

It’s not all bad.

I know some people have been able to build beautiful communities and friendships through social media, but that has not, and will never, be me.

My personality would make it difficult, but my life now—with Secret Service agents trailing me everywhere I go and standing in between me and the world—makes it so I’ll only ever have this insulation, this pressure from an outside world I’ll never get to live in that will dictate how I operate in my day to day life.

They’ll tell Jordan they want me to jump, and she’ll use her data and statistics to tell me exactly how high to go.

Of course, I’m not mad at the Black women who are angry for me.

I’m grateful that there are at least some people in this world who aren’t blaming me for the mess Aubrey made.

I am, however, mad that their collective anger will take precedence over mine.

That it will become Aubrey and Jordan’s focus and my responsibility to fix.

Maybe I should threaten to take away my vote, too.

“And you think I can change their minds?” I ask.

“I know you can.”

Her confidence isn’t in me, per se. It’s in the data.

In the numbers that tell her Aubrey only had Black, female voters to lose because of me.

Their affinity for Aubrey is based on the strength of their connection to me.

They trusted him because I trusted him, and now, their faith in him is shaken because mine has shattered irreparably.

I pull in a breath, trying to expel the hurt that’s rolling through me.

“The first rule of sales is belief, Jordan. You have to believe in the product you’re selling.

You have to have an unshakable confidence in its worth before you can convince someone else of its value.

I don’t have that in me and Aubrey right now, so, no, I don’t think I can.

Whatever ground Aubrey’s lost with Black women will have to be recovered without me. I can’t sell a lie.”

“So you’re saying that our goals are not the same.”

“Not at all. I still want Aubrey in the Oval. I just think you two are going to have to figure out a way to get him there without me.”

As I say the words, I feel relief wash over me.

For weeks, everyone has been asking me what I’m going to do about all of this, and I’ve told them I was going to wait.

I thought I meant for Aubrey to give me the answers I needed or the apology I’ve been craving, but now I know I was just waiting for the right moment to say what I’ve been thinking since I realized I had to postpone my launch.

“I’m taking a step back from the campaign,” I announce.

“I’m going to focus on myself and my business, and I can’t do that if I’m being trotted out like a prized horse for every Black voter-related emergency.

Aubrey and I will address our issues privately.

We’ll heal on our own terms and at our own pace, and you will do what you can to help him recover in the polls. ”

Jordan leans forward in her seat and squares her shoulders, her eyes taking on a hard glint. “That’s not an option, Selene.”

My spine stiffens at the harshness of her tone. “Of course it is.”

“No. Your options are as follows.” She holds up her right hand, extending one long index finger to indicate my first option.

“One. Remember that a life in the public eye is what you signed on for, and commit yourself to doing whatever I tell you is necessary to make the American people believe in the solidity of their future, First couple.” Slowly, she brings up her middle finger to represent my second option.

“Two. You file for divorce. Move out of the house. Sever all ties with Aubrey and allow him and his campaign to move on from all of this nonsense. This is my least favorite option,” she says, her nose scrunched.

“It’s messy and leaves room for too many variables, but I could make it work.

I’ll have Aubrey and Sutton married with a baby on the way faster than you can change your last name back to Grant.

She’ll make a beautiful First Lady, don’t you think?

Young and blonde, with just the right amount of naivety to make her easy to handle.

Trust me, no one will remember the affair or the scorned ex-wife when the pictures of the First Couple taking little AJ to visit his big brother’s grave come out in the Times. ”

Horror and shock roll through me, combining with pain and anger to render me speechless. I know this was Jordan’s goal: to paint a picture so ugly, so vivid, it would paralyze me before catapulting me into action, but it still hurts.

It hurts so fucking bad.

“That’s enough!” Diane shouts, slamming the marcels back into their holder.

They clang loudly, making me jump, but I still can’t move, so I watch helplessly as she rounds the chair and grabs Jordan by her arm, forcing her out of the shop.

With her point made, she goes without a fight, shrugging out of Diane’s hold at the door and tossing a smile at me over her shoulder.

It’s the same one she gave me the first time she saw me with my hair straight, and I don’t have to sort through my knowledge of her expressions and the emotions they’re meant to convey to know that smile can only mean one thing.

Triumph.