“I’m fine.” I take a deliberate bite. “Just not particularly hungry.”
Dad finally looks up from his phone. “You should eat, sweetheart. Big day tomorrow with the charity luncheon.”
Little does he know what tomorrow actually holds for me after the luncheon. The Hunt. My ticket to something real in this plastic world.
“Of course, Dad.” I flash the smile that always works on him. “Wouldn’t want to disappoint the donors.”
Addison reaches over, patting my hand with her perfectly manicured fingers. “Your father’s image is so important right now with the election coming up. We all need to do our part.”
I resist the urge to pull away from her touch. Five years of this charade, and it still makes my skin crawl.
“Our family values are my strongest platform,” Dad says, setting down his phone to cut into his steak. “The voters respond to stability.”
Addison nods enthusiastically. “Which is why we should discuss your wardrobe for tomorrow, Cora. That blue dress from Neiman’s would send exactly the right message.”
“I was thinking of wearing the green one, actually,” I say it just to see the flicker of annoyance cross her face.
“The neckline is a bit... low, don’t you think?” Her smile remains fixed while her eyes harden.
Dad chuckles. “My two favorite women, always thinking about the details.”
He reaches for both our hands across the table, squeezing them affectionately. Addison beams at him, the perfect political wife. I return his squeeze, hating how easily we all play our parts in this performance without an audience.
“Whatever you both think is best,” I concede, biting my lip. “Actually,” I set down my fork, “I’ve been thinking about the direction of my career.”
Dad’s fork pauses halfway to his mouth. “Your career?”
“Law school applications are due soon. I wanted to talk to you both about potentially deferring another year.”
The silence that follows feels like ice cracking under pressure.
“Another year?” Addison’s voice climbs an octave. “Cora, you’ve already deferred once.”
“I’m aware.” I straighten in my chair, meeting her stare. “But I’m not sure law school is the right path for me.”
Dad’s face darkens. “We’ve discussed this. Princeton was the beginning. You need the legal foundation for?—”
“For following in your footsteps.” The words come out sharper than intended. “For becoming exactly what you’ve planned.”
“Watch your tone.” His voice carries that edge that makes junior staffers scurry from his office.
But I’m not a junior staffer.
“I think there might be other ways to make a difference. Real-world experience, maybe working with nonprofits or?—”
“Nonprofits?” Addison laughs, the sound brittle. “Darling, you can’t build a political career volunteering at soup kitchens.”
“Your stepmother’s right.” Dad tosses his napkin on the table. “You need credentials, Cora. Power comes from institutions, not idealism.”
“What if I don’t want your version of power?”
The question hangs in the air between us. Dad’s jaw tightens, that muscle jumping the way it does when reporters ask questions he doesn’t like.
“You’re being naive,” he says finally. “The world doesn’t run on good intentions.”
“No, it runs on compromises and closed-door deals.” I push back from the table. “I’m well aware.”
“Cora.” Addison reaches for me again, but I’m already standing. “Your father only wants what’s best?—”
