At the next intersection, the light turns yellow. Marcus accelerates through it, the light is definitely red by the time we’re under it.
“Timing,” he says with a grin, like traffic laws are a game.
This is how I die. Not murdered by a serial killer. Just killed in a car accident with one.
“I got to admit,” he says, swerving around a bus, “I was hoping to get to know you a little before we officially start tomorrow.”
“Not today?”
“Nah, today’s just onboarding. Paperwork, badge, tour.” He grins. “The boring stuff. Real work starts tomorrow.”
Which means I have one day to figure out how to survive this.
“I was hoping to get to know you today.” Another aggressive lane change without signaling.
He gives me a side-eye. One of those looks that makes my skin crawl.
“What would you like to know?” I force the words out. Professional. Interested.
“Everything.” Another look. Longer this time. His eyes drop to my chest, then back to the road.
We’re going to crash and I’m going to die and they’ll find me in this Maserati with Marcus Ashford and everyone will think we were dating.
“Well,” he starts, cutting off another car, “I grew up in Gladwyne. You know Gladwyne?”
I know Gladwyne. Main Line old money. The kind of neighborhood where the country clubs still have waiting lists from the 1950s and where Marcus’s kind of wealth comes with a family crest and three generations of men who’ve never been told no.
“My family’s been in Philadelphia politics for three generations. My grandfather was on the City Council. My father was Deputy Mayor under Rendell. Public service is in my blood, you know? It’s like—” He accelerates through another yellow light. “—I was born for this. Destined for it.”
“That’s impressive.” I say it like I mean it. I don’t.
“Yeah, I mean, I could have done anything. Wall Street was interested. Had offers from Goldman, Morgan Stanley. But I wanted to give back. Stay in Philadelphia. This is my city.”
He doesn’t wait for me to respond. Just keeps talking.
“I went to Penn. Wharton School of Business. Full ride—well, my dad donated, but still.” He laughs like this is charming. “Got my MBA there too. Could have gone to Harvard, but why leave when everything I need is here?”
I make a noncommittal sound. He doesn’t notice.
“Do you work out, Dylan?” He glances at me. Too long. The car drifts toward the center line.
“Sometimes.”
“You should try CrossFit. Changed my life. I go six days a week. Morning sessions.” He flexes slightly, like I asked. “Plant-based diet mostly. Keeps me lean. Though I’ll have a steak sometimes because, you know, men need protein.”
Men need protein. As if women don’t.
“The campaign was incredible,” he continues, swerving around a bus. “Totally grassroots. I mean, my family helped with connections and fundraising, but the energy was all organic. Young people just connected with my message, you know? The authenticity.”
I want to text Alex. Want to tell her about this insane drive, about Marcus monologuing, about how I’m not going to survive this.
But she’s not speaking to me. And I’m doing this alone.
“I’m very active on social media. You’ve probably seen my stuff.” He glances at me. Expectant.
“I follow you on Instagram,” I say, because he’s waiting.
“Right! Yeah, I saw that.” His grin widens. “I like to keep it real, you know? Show people the authentic Marcus. Not just the politician. The whole person. That’s why people connect with me. They feel like they know me.”
