Inside the conference room, the atmosphere tightens the second I cross the threshold. Grant Ellislooks up from his seat at the table. He’s senior counsel and West Coast political royalty. He’s also someone I dated briefly last year before we realized we preferred winning arguments to compromising over dinner plans.
“Madison,” he says, his lips curving into a familiar shark-like smile. “Still terrifying, I see.”
“Grant,” I reply, taking the seat at the head of the table. I lower myself slowly, praying no one hears the audible creak of my vertebrae. “Still pretending this isn’t a Category Five hurricane?”
I get a few weak smiles and a lot of swallowed nerves in return. Grant is the one who called me. He knows exactly why I’m the only one who can fix this.
“I’ll get straight to it,” I say, clicking the remote.
The screen behind me freezes on the now-infamous moment: Senator David Reece, the “Family Values” candidate, flipping off a reporter as he exits a fundraiser.
“This was forty-eight hours ago. This should’ve peaked and died by now.”
I click the slide to a still from later that night. It’s the same senator, but he’s holding a glass of champagne, captured mid-laugh at a donor event. The audio reveals that he was joking about the gesture he’d made earlier.
Idiot.
A ripple of discomfort runs through the room.
“That,” I continue, tapping the screen, “was the mistake. The finger was an impulse. The joke was a choice. It makes him look arrogant, not just stressed.”
Someone clears their throat. “With respect, Madison, he was provoked—”
I lifta hand. “No.”
Silence drops instantly.
“You didn’t hire me to explain his feelings. You hired me to prevent this from becoming his political obituary.”
I click to a slide with draft headlines.
SENATOR REECE CANCELS APPEARANCES FOLLOWING ‘MOMENT OF POOR JUDGMENT’
REECE STEPS BACK FROM SPOTLIGHT AFTER OFFENSIVE GESTURE
“He will not do interviews,” I tell them, my eyes scanning the room. “He will not joke. He will not attend fundraisers. He will release one statement—written by me—and then he will disappear for ten days.”
One of the advisors frowns. “He’s being touted as a future presidential candidate. He needs to be seen.”
I nod slowly. “Exactly. Which is why he’s going to go quiet. Absence makes the public forget. Persistence makes them resentful. You are all going to do exactly as I say, or I’m walking out that door and letting the social media mob finish him off.”
The room holds its breath. I click again, revealing a timeline.
“Outrage peaks at seventy-two hours. After that, it needs oxygen to survive. We are cutting off the air supply. We reach out to the reporter privately. No cameras. Be respectful. Offer her an exclusive in six months. She got flipped off for doing her goddamn job. Reece should have apologized before I even got the call.”
Grant watches me closely, something like admiration, or maybe just the ghost of an old flame, flickering across his face.
“And social media?” a junior advisor asks.
“We don’t engage,” I reply. “Silence is discipline. If we don’t feed the trolls, they move on to the next shiny disaster.”
The meeting breaks quickly after that. No one argues once I draw the line. They never do. It’s my gift and my curse.
As the room clears, Grant lingers. “God, you’re beautiful when you’re in total control,” he rasps, leaning against the mahogany table.
“I like results, Grant,” I correct, arching a brow. “Now stop flirting with your consultant and get out of my boardroom. You have a legal brief to hide.”
He smiles, raising his hands. “Yes, Ma’am.”
