It's the only time I see her fully relax—when she's holding Maria. The baby has given her something to focus on, something good in the wreckage of her marriage. She doesn't talk about her husband. I don't ask.
"Carter Crane wins!" The anchor's voice cuts through the noise, and for a moment, everything stops. Then the room explodes.
Cheering. Crying. People hugging each other, jumping up and down, champagne bottles popping like gunfire. Someone turns up the music and the volunteers who have spent months knocking on doors and making phone calls finally let themselves celebrate.
Carter pushes through the crowd toward me. His face is split in a grin so wide it looks almost painful, and when he reachesme, he doesn't hesitate. He takes my face in his hands and kisses me right there in front of everyone—deep and desperate and utterly unconcerned with the cameras that are definitely capturing this moment.
"We did it," he breathes against my lips.
"You did it."
"We." He pulls back just enough to look at me, his eyes bright with emotion. "I couldn't have done any of this without you. You know that, right? Everything—the campaign, the baby, all of it. It’s perfect."
He laughs and kisses me again.
The celebration continues around us, but I find myself drifting to the edge of the room, watching rather than participating.
Elizabeth is showing Maria off to some donors with grandmotherly pride. Kate is deep in conversation with Akari, and I make a mental note to ask later what that's about. Campaign staff are already talking about the transition, the staffing decisions, the thousand details that go into setting up a Senate office.
This is our life now. Public, visible, subject to scrutiny in ways I never imagined when I was just a tabloid journalist chasing stories about celebrities behaving badly.
I find a quiet corner and pull out my phone. There's a text from Laura, my editor:Congratulations. Get your ass back to work.
I smile. The paternity leave is officially over next week, but Laura has been sending me leads for months, keeping me in the loop, making it clear that there's a place for me whenever I'm ready. I'm ready.
I've been ready for a while now, if I'm honest. I love Maria more than I knew it was possible to love another person, but I'm not cut out to be a full-time parent. I need the work, the chase,the satisfaction of digging up things that powerful people want buried.
The celebration is winding down when Carter finally extracts himself from the last round of congratulations. He finds me in the corner where I've retreated, Maria asleep against my shoulder, and sinks into the chair beside me.
"Senator Crane," I say, trying the words out. "Has a nice ring to it."
"It doesn't feel real yet." He reaches over, adjusts the blanket around Maria. "Probably won't until I'm actually sitting in the chamber."
He's quiet for a moment, his hand finding mine in the space between us. "My father refused to see me again. He won't even put me on his approved visitors list."
I squeeze his hand. I know how much it hurts him, even though he pretends it doesn't. Senator Crane II has made it clear that as far as he's concerned, Carter no longer exists.
"I'm sorry."
"Don't be. He made his choices. I made mine." He looks down at Maria, sleeping peacefully against my chest. "I look at her, and I know I made the right one. She's never going to think that power matters more than integrity."
"She's also going to grow up with unprecedented media attention and a target on her back because of who her parents are." I keep my voice light, but it's a real concern. "We're going to have to work hard to give her anything resembling a normal childhood."
"We will." He sounds certain.
The car service arrives to take us home—not to the penthouse, not anymore.
Three months ago, we moved into a brownstone, the kind of place with a small backyard and a kitchen big enough to cook real meals and neighbors who wave when they see you coming.It's modest by Crane standards, extravagant by Dean standards, and exactly right for us.
I buckle Maria into her car seat, marveling as I always do at how she can sleep through literally anything. Carter slides in beside me, and as the car pulls away from the headquarters, I watch the celebration recede through the rear window.
The house is dark when we arrive, just the porch light glowing in welcome. Carter takes Maria from the car seat while I grab the diaper bag.
Maria stirs when Carter lays her in her crib, her eyes opening just enough to confirm that she's still safe, still loved, before fluttering closed again. We stand there together for a moment, watching her breathe.
"I love you." Carter's voice is quiet in the darkness of the nursery. "I don't think I say it enough. I love you, Jamie."
My throat tightens. We don't say it often—neither of us is particularly good at vulnerability—but when we do, it means something.
