A problem my mother and her committee no doubt represents.
"Mr. Roarke." I extend my hand, and he takes it in a firm handshake. "Thank you so much for being here today. And for your generous support of Mom's campaign."
"Your mother is doing important work," he says, his voice even. "Though I suspect we may not always see eye to eye on the finer points of her latest piece of legislation."
I tense at his words but keep the smile on my face. Cassius Roarke is the CEO and main shareholder of Asterion, the social media platform that took the world by storm about five years ago. I’m pretty sure there’s no one under the age of thirty who doesn’t have an Asterion account—including me.
"I have to say," I continue, trying to fill the suddenly weighted silence, "Asterion has completely taken over my generation. Half of my friends can't go five minutes without checking it. You've built something incredible."
“Technology should serve people, not the other way around.” His smile doesn't reach his eyes. "Though sometimes the line between service and control can be complicated."
Before I can figure out what that means, Mom appears beside us with the kind of timing that comes from thirty years in politics.
"Cassius," she says, her voice warm but professional. "I hope Rona has been taking good care of you."
"She's charming," he replies, his gaze shifting between us. "I was just telling her how much I admire your work. Though Ido hope that when the committee meets next month, you will remember the support I’ve given your career over the years."
Mom's smile never wavers, but I catch the slight tightening around her eyes that means she's shifted into full political mode.
"Of course, Cassius. As always, we'll carefully weigh all perspectives. But I do have to remind you that I work for the people, not corporations. They are the ones who voted for me."
The exchange is smooth as silk, but there's something underneath it that makes my stomach clench. This is the part of politics I've never gotten used to, the way everything becomestransactional.
"Naturally," Cassius says, his tone unchanged but his smile sharp enough to cut glass. "I wouldn't expect anything less from a legislator of your integrity."
The words are perfectly polite, but they feel like a warning.
After a few more minutes of careful conversation, Cassius excuses himself, moving through the crowd with the confidence of someone who knows he belongs wherever he chooses to go. Or more like someone who has enough money to buy his place wherever he chooses to be.
"Well done," Mom murmurs, but Caroline is already at my elbow, her expression critical.
"You lingered too long on the Asterion comment," she whispers as Mom is pulled into another conversation. "We don't want to seem too impressed by his business success. It undermines your mother's position on the bill."
I nod automatically, but I don’t really care anymore. The rest of the morning passes in a blur. More handshakes, more small talk, more carefully managed smiles. Caroline continues her constant stream of corrections. Stand straighter, smile wider, don't mention that, remember to ask about this.
By the time the official program begins, I feel like I've been performing for hours. My cheeks hurt from smiling, my feet ache in these shoes, and I have the familiar and unwelcome sensation of being watched and evaluated by everyone in the room.
Mom takes the podium with her usual confidence, a vision of competence in her ivory pantsuit and impeccable hairstyle, thanking the donors for their support and outlining her vision for her newest piece of legislation. She's in her element up there, commanding the room with the kind of presence that's made her one of the most effective senators in the country. And one of the most powerful.
I find myself near a tall window, grateful for a moment to breathe while everyone's attention is focused on the speech. The morning light is warm on my face, and for just a second, I let my practiced smile relax into something more genuine.
That's when my phone buzzes in the tiny clutch I was allowed to carry.
I glance down discreetly, expecting a text from one of my friends or maybe a reminder from Caroline about somethingI'm supposed to remember later. Instead, I see a notification from an unknown number.
I frown, then open it. The message contains only a link to a post on Asterion. A post for my own private account. A post I don’t remember making at all.
My heart rate picks up as I look at the preview thumbnail. It shows what appears to be me at some kind of wild party. Only I've never been to any party like the one in the image. The girl in the thumbnail is wearing a short skirt that practically shows her underwear and a tank top that leaves nothing to the imagination. She’s dancing on a low table, surrounded by people I don't recognize.
My blood runs cold.
With hands that suddenly feel clumsy, I click on the link. The video starts immediately, and I watch in growing horror at the girl who looks exactly like me.
I mean, she has my face, my hair, my body. Anyone and everyone looking at her would think sheisme. But she’s not.
What the fuck is this?
The girl dances on the table to the cheers of the crowd. She’s clearly drunk, and she laughs as she reaches for the hem of her tank top, then lifts it over her head and throws it down to some frat boy who howls in response. Blood rushes through my ears as the girl reaches for the hem of her skirt, then wiggles out of it, standing in only a thong to the ever-growing cheers of the partygoers.
