"I understand," I say. "Your family has to protect their interests."
"So does yours." A pause. "I hope you weather this, Carter. I really do."
"Thank you, Georgia."
"Take care of yourself."
The line goes dead.
I stand in the hallway for a long moment, phone still pressed to my ear. We were supposed to announce the wedding date next week.
I should feel grief or anger perhaps, but instead I just feel a little sad. I’ve always liked Georgia. She’s smart, pragmatic. She’d have made an excellent senator’s wife.
Only I know that she was intending to drop the ‘wife’ from that title after enough time. She wanted to run for a seat herself and my coattails were the fastest way to get there.
Not any more.
When I return to the study, my mother is standing by the window where I'd been. She turns at my entrance, and something in her expression tells me she knows.
"Georgia?" she asks.
"Her family thinks we should postpone the wedding." I don't mention the ring. I don't mention the word that was never said but hung between us: over. "Give things time to settle."
My mother nods, unsurprised. "The Mitchells have always been pragmatists. It's what makes them successful."
"It's what makes them cowards," my father says.
My mother’s eyes glance towards my father and she gives him a soft smile. "Pragmatism isn't cowardice, my love." She moves closer to me, lowers her voice so my father and Warren can't hear. "Your father will handle the politics. You need to think about your own future."
"My future is this family."
"Your future is whatever you make it." Her eyes hold mine, calm and assessing. There's no panic in her, no denial. She's already planning for contingencies. My mother has always been the strategist in this family. My father is the face, the voice, the presence. She's the one who sees three moves ahead.
"What are you saying?"
"I'm saying that empires fall, Carter. Even ones that have stood for generations." She straightens my lapel, a gesture so familiar it aches. "The smart ones have exit strategies."
Before I can respond, Warren looks up from his phone. "Senator, we have a development."
My father frowns. "What now?"
"David Glass's people called. They want someone from the family on Point of Contention. Tomorrow night."
The room goes still. David Glass is famous for eviscerating guests who come unprepared. He's destroyed careers with a single interview.
"Absolutely not," my father says. "It's too risky."
Warren’s nod. "I’ll decline."
"That makes us look guilty," I say.
Everyone turns to look at me.
"If we hide, we look like we have something to hide." I step forward, my mind already working through the angles. "Glass's audience skews older, more conservative. They're predisposed to distrust media hit jobs. If we can control the narrative and get ahead of the story—"
"Glass will ambush you with something we haven't prepared for." Warren's voice is sharp. “That’s what he does.”
"We can’t keep hiding." I look at my father. "Let me do this. I can handle David Glass."
