What do I think?I stare at the elegant young woman in gold and diamonds before me. Her ebony hair gleams, twisted up with the Black family comb. Her skin is luminous, her lips the shade of peonies and politics. She looks untouchable, pristine.
She looks… not me.
I hate her.
“Thank you,” I say instead. “It’s perfect.”
The stylists bustle out with their kits, leaving behind a haze of perfume and hairspray. As the door closes behind the last of them, I exhale, my shoulders slumping for just a second.
I step down from the platform in front of the mirror, the skirts of my gown whispering around my legs. I walk to the window to distract myself from the anxiety coiling tighter by the minute. Outside, the gardens of the Black estate glow under the late afternoon sun. The gardeners trimmed the hedges at dawn, preparing for the press photos planned for tomorrow.
Beyond these walls, the country is voting.
Election Day.
Polls opened hours ago, and by tonight my father will have won.
The outcome was decided long before any voter stepped into a booth. He said our family will become history. He really believes this is a golden day.
For him, it is a triumph.
For me, it’s an execution date.
My eyes burn, and I realize I’m holding my breath. I force myself to inhale slowly.Don’t cry,I command myself.Not now.Not when I’m perfectly made up. I can’t ruin their creation. I won’t give anyone the satisfaction of seeing me crack.
Instead, I let my mind drift to the only safe place it can:them.
A brisk knock at the door jolts me from my thoughts. I turn, already smoothing my features back into a mask of composure. The door opens and my father’s personal assistant, a thin-lipped woman named Regina, steps inside.
“Miss Black,” she says, eyes flicking over me to ensure I’m presentable. A small, approving smile touches her mouth when she sees the polished doll I’ve become. “Your father is ready for you. The car is waiting to take you downtown.”
“Of course.”
By the time we arrive downtown, a victory hum already crackles in the air. I barely remember the drive over. Father spent it on the phone with advisors, finalizing his speech that he is to give.
Now, as I stand at the grand entrance of the Ashen Grove ballroom with my hand resting lightly on my father’s arm, reality swallows me whole.
Black-and-gold banners drape from the balcony railings, emblazoned with the slogan “BLACK FOR AMERICA” in bold letters.
Father guides me forward through a path clearing in the crowd. Everywhere hands reach out to congratulate him, voiceseffusive: “We did it, Clark!” “Congratulations, Mr. President!” He meets each well-wisher with a charismatic smile and a firm handshake, projecting humble gratitude. I know better. Behind that politician’s grin lies pure triumph.
People I recognize only from magazines and television beam at me as I pass. Senators, CEOs, foreign dignitaries, I catalog numbly. They all see the smiling First Daughter.
Father pauses near the center of the ballroom, turning to the crowd with a raised hand—a signal. The applause that had quieted during his mingling rises again to a spirited cheer. An announcer’s voice booms through the speakers. “Ladies and gentlemen, the President-elect of the United States, Clark Black!”
A fresh wave of exhilarated cheers crashes over us.President-elect.
It’s real now.
On a giant screen above the stage, I catch the bold graphics of a news network broadcast: a map awash in my father’s victory color, the words BLACK WINS splashed triumphantly across it.
It’s official, Clark Black has been deemed the next President of the United States.
Father gives a genteel nod to the room and then to me, my mother, and Milo to follow him up the stage.
Before I take another step, Chase is there, taking my arm. I stiffen, the reflexive surge of revulsion at his touch flaring under my skin. My smile threatens to falter, but I catch it and quickly fasten it back in place.
The lights dim except for the stage, and a hush falls over the ballroom. Chase keeps a hold on me, steering me smoothly to stand just below the stage, in full view of the crowd but a step behind the spotlight. His hand slides to the small of my back in what must look like a supportive gesture.
