And I should take better care of the people carrying some of the weight of this campaign on their shoulders in order to take some of the burdens off of me.
“Mr. Marshall, are you ready to begin?”
Taking one last deep breath, I fix my facial features into my well-practiced media mask and walk to the open seat across from the petite, blonde reporter. After sitting down in the suede chair in my sitting room, I reach to shake the woman’s outstretched hand. Her grip is firm, and when I meet her eyes, her smile reminds me of a Disney villain. Who let me make the decision to allow the media inside my home?
Oh. That’s right.
Hayden.
“Because people will want to see who Darcy Marshall truly is.”I fight to not roll my eyes at the memory.“And this is a conservative-leaning column.”
“Krissy Towers with Pop Culture NOW!” The venom in her voice is camouflaged as honey. I try to remember she is just doing her job, and I need to give a good, honest, and worthy interview to whoever I speak to.
“You know who I am.” The dead chuckle I give only elicits an icy smile from her. Pop culture interviews are worse than the political ones by a long shot. But Hayden said it’s imperative that I do a few pop culture exchanges since I’m on the younger side at thirty-nine.
My age doesn’t necessarily reflect my soul. And I’ll be forty this year, which means I have no business caring about pop culture. I’ve told her that, but she doesn’t listen.
“A person would have to be living under a rock to not know your face and name.”
My gut clenches. “If someone is living under a rock, I would love to meet them and help them find a home.” I fight to maintain theeasy-going, inviting persona, but a certain iciness seeps through. I’ve always despised that idiom.
Krissy’s smile falters, but then she shakes her head. “Such a giving person, I suppose. Are you ready for the interview? I sent your team a list of questions last week.”
I nod, sitting back casually in the chair and crossing my legs. I place my folded hands on my lap. “I’m ready.”
Her smile is like a predator preparing to strike. It’s a shame how reporters act kind and like they have your best interest at heart before the camera rolls, but then they shed their skin and turn into the hissing snakes they are when the person behind the camera gives them the greenlight that the camera is rolling.
I’m sure she’s a fine lady, but her profession makes me automatically dislike her.
The producer behind the camera begins a verbal countdown, ending with finger motions for three…two…one.
“Mr. Marshall,” Krissy begins without missing a beat; she seems to be a true professional at what she does, which I can admire. “Thank you so much for joining our program today. More so, thank you for being a gracious host here at your home—Ophelia Estate.”
“My pleasure.”
Her eyes continually flick from the teleprompter to me.
“You had a sister named Ophelia. She died at the young age of eight when you were only nineteen.”
My fingers press hard against my knuckles, but I keep my hands folded on my lap. Her words were statements posed as questions, ones she already knows the answers to. “Yes, Ophelia was the name of my little sister.”
“What prompted you to name the estate after her once your father passed and you inherited it?” Krissy crosses her legs and places her hands on top of her knee.
I super glue a tight smile on my face and fight to remain calm. “To bring her the honor she deserves.” I unfold my hands and rest them gently on top of each other on my lap while taking a deep breath through my nose.Please. Change the subject.
Krissy smiles politely and does the sympathetic head tilt. “It’s strangely impossible to find information about her death. Could you tell us what—”
I cough loudly, tucking my face away in the bend of my arm. “Excuse me,” I choke. “Bennie, do you mind bringing Ms. Towers and me lemon water to drink?” I turn to the reporter who’s wearing a concerned look. That’s nice of her, I guess. It’s better than her slithering smile. “Do you like lemon water?”
She nods her head. I smile at her and pray my expression conveys that she needs to change the subject. Bennie, my personal secretary, brings out two glasses of water. After taking a sip, I motion for the reporter to continue.
“The latest controversy surrounding your campaign is that Ms. Priscilla Weatherby broke your engagement because you had an affair. Would you like to comment?”
This topic is only one notch better than discussing my dead sister.
“As I’ve said in past interviews and speeches, I never had an affair while dating and being engaged to Ms.Weatherby. We parted on mutual terms for the benefit of us both.” Half a lie. The breakup was definitely one-sided (hers), but I refuse to let the press continue correlating my name to the wordaffair.
I amnotmy father.
