It's the question I've been asked a thousand times. I've got my answer memorized. But tonight, something makes me pause.
"You don't," I say. "Not yet. You can't know that based on my last name or my father's reputation or anything I say in this room. Politicians talk big, deliver little. You all already know that. So I'm asking you to hold me accountable. And if I don't deliver, vote me out."
The room is quiet for a moment. Then someone in the back starts clapping, and it spreads.
Afterwards, I shake hands until my arm aches and take selfies, smiling until my cheeks ache.
In the car, I let my head fall back against the seat and close my eyes.
Eight months since the expose. Six months since I last saw Jamie.
I've thrown myself into the campaign with everything I have. Fourteen-hour days. Town halls and policy briefings and endless rounds of meetings. I've given interview after interview, projecting confidence and defending the family name.
It almost works. During the day, when I'm busy enough, I can go hours without thinking about him.
Jamie Dean has vanished completely from public life. No interviews. No bylines about my family. His column still appears occasionally—I check, though I hate myself for it—but it's all local corruption now, city council scandals, zoning disputes. Nothing about us.
I don't know what that means. I don't know if he's realized I was right or just decided it wasn’t worth the fight. Maybe he’ssimply found better things to do than think about me.Someonebetter to do than me.
The thought of Jamie with someone else sends something hot and fierce racing through my chest. I’ve never been a particularly aggressive alpha but imagining Jamie with someone else makes me want to hunt down that alpha and tear him limb from limb.
Stop. Jamie isn’t yours and you are not his.
The ache of it has become so familiar it's almost like breathing. His number still doesn’t work, and I’ve not been able to find out his new one.
My father thinks I've been "distracted" because of the campaign stress. Warren thinks the Georgia situation still stings. Kate, who notices too much, asked me once if I was seeing someone, and I shut her down so fast she didn't ask again. My mother is the only person who isn’t haranguing me.
No one knows the truth. No one can ever know.
Six months. And I'm no closer to being over him than I was the day he left.
My mother's birthday falls on a Thursday this year, which means we're celebrating on the weekend at one of my father's favourite restaurants. We have a private room, but we enter through the main dining area. This is performance as much as celebration. We are the Cranes, united and thriving despite everything.
My father works the room like the professional he is. Three handshakes before we've passed the bar, a warm greeting for a congressman, a charming exchange with a woman I vaguely recognise from one of my mother's charity boards. He's magnetic when he wants to be—that's what people always say about Carter Crane II. He’s the kind of man who makes you feel like you're the only person in the room.
I watch him now, laughing at something the congressman said, his hand on the man's shoulder, as if they're old friendseven if they've only met twice. My father has a gift for making people feel seen. It's what makes him such an effective politician.
I follow in his wake, smiling for a selfie with a young staffer, shaking the hand of a donor who wants to tell me he's "rooting for the family."
My mother walks beside me, elegant in cream silk, pearls at her throat. Elizabeth Crane doesn't do anything by halves.
"Smile, darling," she murmurs as we navigate the last few tables. "You look like you're attending a funeral."
I adjust my expression. She's right. I need to do better.
The private room is intimate. We have a round table set for four, candles flickering in silver holders. Kate is already there, seated with her back to the door, scrolling through her phone.
She doesn't look up when we enter.
"Catherine." My father's voice carries that particular edge he reserves for her sometimes and I wonder what argument they’ve got into this time. Climate change, perhaps. Or our foreign policy. Both would be solid bets. "So glad you could join us."
Kate locks her phone and sets it face-down on the table. "Wouldn't miss Mom's birthday."
She stands to kiss our mother's cheek. "Happy birthday, Mom."
"Thank you, sweetheart." My mother cups Kate's face briefly. "You look thin. Are you eating?"
Kate rolls her eyes. "I'm fine."
