ONE
MARA
The hem of my navy blue dress inches up as I readjust my feet for the umpteenth time. Discreetly, I pull it down, masking the motion as an idle smoothing of fabric, then flick my hair over my shoulder. The artificial arena lights burn overhead, making it hard to see faces in the crowd.
In front of me, my father speaks with the practiced cadence of a man who has rehearsed his own lies so thoroughly even he believes them. The teleprompter reflects in his sharp blue eyes—my eyes.
“America is built on family values,” he says into the microphone.
The crowd erupts in applause and cheers, his own symphony of devotion. I look to my left and right, surrounded by poster boards that say:Black for President. T-shirts, hats, more fucking banners. It’s everywhere. My last name, plastered across the chests of the thousands around us. As if my father is a brand, and not a person.
Beside me, my twin brother, Milo, shifts his weight. Hisposture is perfect, his politician’s smile locked into place. He thrives in this—the cameras, the adoration, the game. He was born for it. I was the spare. Or just collateral damage.
My mother stands on my other side, poised and pristine. Eleanor Black is the very image of a First Lady in waiting—graceful, elegant, as untouchable as a porcelain doll. She pretends not to notice the way my fingers dig into my palm just to keep from screaming when she looks down for a moment.
“And as you can see,” my father continues, turning slightly toward us, “I have my beautiful wife, Ellie, and my twin children here with me today to show you that we are united.”
United.The word is a fucking joke.
The arena roars in approval, the energy feverish, manic. I see them—the fanatics, the sycophants, the ones who would bleed for a man who wouldn’t so much as shake their hand if there weren’t cameras present.
There are reporters near the front, their lenses trained on us, searching for the perfect angle to capture this illusion of unity. Somewhere in the VIP section, I know the donors are watching, their pockets deep, their morals shallow. They don’t care about family values. They care about power.
The crowd chants my father’s name like a hymn as he waves, soaking in their praise. Flashing cameras cast jagged bursts of light across the stage, illuminating the perfect, polished image of the Black family.
Clark Black, the man of the hour. Eleanor Black, his poised, silent shadow. Milo and I, the golden twins—symbols of the next generation.
I smile. Because I have to.
But inside, I’m suffocating.
As the rally ends and the stage lights dim, we move toward the back halls of the arena, escorted by a wall of security. A private elevator whisks us up to the suite level, where an exclusive cocktail hour awaits the donors and power players who fund this charade.
This is where real politics happens. Not on the stage. Not in the debates. Here, in dimly-lit rooms filled with men whose names never make the papers.
The Syndicate is already here.
I spot them immediately, scattered among the elite, blending seamlessly, yet unmistakably apart. Their presence isn’t loud—it doesn’t need to be. Their power exists in the spaces between words, in the subtle nods and unseen agreements.
For as long as I can remember, the Syndicate has lurked in the background of my father’s life. They aren’t just donors. They’re kingmakers.
And my father is their most successful project.
Groomed in his youth, molded into the perfect candidate. Charismatic. Untouchable. A man the people could worship while never realizing he wasn’t truly in control.
I glide through the room with my mother, offering polite nods and delicate smiles as we pass senators, oil magnates, and media moguls. I recognize them all—most have been in my life since childhood, shaking my hand at holiday parties, calling me darling as they patted my head like a prized pet.
But the Syndicate men… they don’t coddle. They assess.
One of them, a silver-haired man in an impeccable three-piece suit, lifts his glass in my direction. His eyes are sharp, calculating.
James Harrington.
The architect behind my father’s rise.
He studies me for a moment, as if peeling back my skin to see what lies beneath. Then he shifts his attention back to my father, who’s already deep in conversation with another Syndicate member.
I step toward the bar, barely listening as my mother entertains a conversation about campaign strategies. A waiter passes, and I pluck a glass of champagne from his tray. The bubbles burst against my tongue, crisp and cold.
