Page 1 of The Senator's Rival

1

FRANCESCA

“There has never been a more crucial time than now for our voices to be heard,” Francesca Thurston’s impassioned, confident voice rang out throughout the arena. “Each and every one of us has the power to change history and shape a better future for ourselves and those who follow, and we can, together, create an America in which no person is excluded or forgotten!”

The crowd exploded with applause, cheering and chanting the speaker's name in admiration. An easygoing smile on her face, Francesca fell silent and looked out at the gathered onlookers with pride. This rally was their largest yet, with over ten thousand people in attendance, in addition to countless viewers watching online.

Maybe holding a rally in her home state of Massachusetts was a bit of narcissistic indulgence that wasn't strictly necessary for the campaign, but it definitely helped boost morale among Francesca’s teammates and volunteers. Now, at 42 years old, it felt amazing to get a resounding show of support from the locals who had known her since she'd first stepped into politics almost two decades ago.

After taking a moment to bask in the excitement, Francesca nodded approvingly at the audience and said, “I am honored to officially accept your nomination for presidential candidate. With your help and support, we will create a country in which equality and unity can become a reality, rather than a pipe dream!”

This time, the roar of applause was deafening. In the bright spotlight, it was almost impossible to make out individual faces among the mass of supporters. There were nothing but blurry blobs in front of Francesca. The energy was palpable, however--an incomparable stream of positive momentum that flowed from the crowd and directly into her. She stood still, grinning, arms outstretched with gratitude as the people showered her with praise.

This wasn't why Francesca had gotten into politics. She came from a long line of activists and influential political figures driven by passion and principles instead of fame, and was determined to carry on that legacy. Nonetheless, now that she was here, Francesca had to admit that this sort of recognition was a delightful bonus. Honestly, who wouldn't enjoy standing up in front of thousands and having them cheer you on? Being a senator was often thankless work, with far more complaints and insults from the general public than accolades and compliments, and Francesca was realistic enough to recognize that the presidency would be more of the same.

In these moments on the campaign trail, however, it was lovely to just bask for a few minutes. To really savor the moment and take it all in. The rush, the attention, the hope, and the love. No matter what happened going forward, Francesca had created and nurtured this movement. And it had thrived, spreading far beyond its roots and expanding into a national force hoping to elect her as president. Despite everything that could go wrong--the possibility of failure due to the sheer magnitude of the responsibility--all she could feel right now was pure, undiluted joy.

“Thank you all so much!” Francesca finally called out. “God bless you all, and bless the United States of America!”

They went wild for it. With a broad smile and a wave, she descended off the stage, brushing off her elegant navy blue pantsuit and smoothing down her sleek, dark brown bob. Her assistants huddled around, helping tidy her appearance before they got to the lobby where Francesca would be meeting with her key sponsors and staff for drinks and light refreshments. The team buzzed around her with excitement as they strode through the winding halls of the arena. Everyone seemed invigorated by the energy and enthusiasm from the crowd, talking and laughing with renewed vigor and purpose and congratulating Francesca and each other on yet another successful rally.

“Absolutely perfect speech, Frankie,” her campaign manager, Juliet, said with satisfaction. The wispy brunette was clutching her clipboard to her chest and walking quickly, her kitten heels clacking against the floor. “The sound was great, the lighting was good, and the audience responded to everything you said. The part about access to affordable childcare is going to generate positive press. Should help our polling with on-the-fence suburban moms.”

“Bless you, Jules, what would I do without you?” Francesca laughed, patting her old friend's shoulder fondly. Juliet had managed several of her past campaigns, and their familiarity with each other bred comfort and ease. “The crowd really turned out for us tonight, didn't they?” Francesca added thoughtfully as she followed Juliet down the hall.

“You're on your home turf here. Would've been worried if we didn't have a solid turnout,” Juliet added sardonically, arching a manicured eyebrow. “This place is already yours. Maine next week is going to?—”

“Yes, Jules, I know,” Francesca sighed, giving an exasperated chuckle. “Let me have this one for now, all right? Can we save the doom and gloom for tomorrow morning, when we're looking at numbers?”

“Yes, ma'am,” Juliet replied with a smirk.

They strolled down the corridor until they reached the door to the lobby. Before going through, Francesca's team swarmed her, doing light touch-ups to hair and makeup and quickly running through the names of important attendees so that she could remember names and faces on sight. They made sure that her suit was immaculate and unwrinkled. As always, Francesca took in the information with practiced ease, nodding along and muttering affirmatives in reply to any questions. Smiling graciously for everyone involved.

She had been a public figure for most of her adult life and was accustomed to this sort of thing. Even as a child, media appearances and political functions had been fairly routine. The Thurston family name was practically synonymous with American politics. Her grandfather had been a renowned civil rights advocate and one of the longest-sitting senators in modern history, pushing through several acts of major legislation during his tenure. Her dad had been a similarly prominent governor of New Hampshire, her home state. High-level politics ran in her blood and she had grown up in the midst of it, soaking in the atmosphere and learning every nuance almost by absorption.

It had given Francesca a thick skin and a keen understanding of what to expect from the press, the public, and other politicians. Mingling with donors and lobbyists was second nature to her, so when she stepped through the door to the waiting crowd, Francesca automatically flashed a smile--as though she had been born for this specific scene. Which was pretty much true. She shook hands, exchanged pleasantries, and received hugs, making sure to greet people by their first names as if they were lifelong friends. Taking an interest in the life of every person she spoke to. Francesca’s handshake was strong and firm, her dark brown eyes remaining fixed on whomever was speaking.

Her demeanor had been practiced, of course, because it would be madness to run a presidential campaign without any kind of preparation or media training. Still, Francesca truly did enjoy interacting with people this way. She liked getting to know people and was genuinely interested in learning about her sponsors and followers. Getting to know the people supporting her campaign and understanding their hopes and dreams made the entire venture so much more than a job. It made Francesca feel proud of the campaign, of the movement they were building, and of the promise of good things to come. The future of the world itself might be better if things went according to plan.

“So glad you could attend this evening, Robert,” she said to an older gentleman, shaking his hand firmly. “How's your daughter enjoying college? Did she pick a major yet?”

“Business, surprisingly!” he exclaimed, laughing at himself as he straightened his tie. “You're an inspiration to these young people, Francesca. It means a lot to my Emily to see someone like you breaking the mold--stepping out on a limb and being true to yourself.”

It was easy to smile at that. Of course, Francesca knew that not everyone shared his opinion. The majority of the conservative base was against her, simply due to her sexuality. Being the first openly gay woman to be nominated as a presidential candidate was controversial and she was often met with harsh criticism, particularly within certain religious circles. That was to be expected, however, and it didn't hurt any more than it would damage a duck's feathers to be splashed with water.

Early on in her political career, Francesca had made the decision to live authentically and proudly. Since then, she had stuck to her guns. Despite anyone's objections, she had won her party's official nomination by a landslide. To her supporters, her experience, charisma, and long list of accomplishments spoke for themselves, so they backed her as their champion without reservation. Winning over the swing states would be tricky, of course, but if anyone was up to the challenge, it was her.

For about an hour, Francesca walked around the lobby, meeting with donors and interacting with her team. Greeting a few members of the press who had been invited to report on the event. Photographers took pictures, reporters asked questions, and her team followed her diligently to make sure she interacted with everyone she should. Everyone who wanted a handshake, a hug, or a few moments of Francesca’s time received it, and she kept a congenial smile on her face throughout.

After the final group photos had been taken and the last potential donor greeted, Francesca finally waved goodbye and headed out to her car. On her way through the winding streets of Boston, she leaned back and closed her eyes, taking a moment to rest and reflect on the last few whirlwind days. It had been a flurry of TV appearances, speeches, phone calls, and strategy meetings. But she was officially a presidential candidate who was backed by her party. Despite all the planning and campaigning that had gone into making this happen, it still felt surreal.

The car arrived at the restaurant and her driver stepped out, opening Francesca’s door for her. She stepped out onto the sidewalk and took a deep breath, letting the cool evening air wash over her. Then she walked inside, where her family was waiting.

At a large table sat three young adults of mixed race who looked so different from each other that they had rarely been taken for siblings when they were kids. This might have been because their mother's side of the family was Irish or Scottish looking, with pale skin, freckles, and red hair. Meanwhile, their father's side of the family was black, with dark skin and tightly coiled hair. Like most black people with ancestors from the South, slavery had been part of his family’s history.

As a result, the Thurston siblings didn't look very much like each other. Instead, they resembled a mosaic of humanity with all its shades, textures, and hues. Eleanor and Samuel, the two youngest, were probably the most different from each other in looks—Eleanor was the spitting image of their mother, just a bit darker, while Samuel was nearly a mirror image of their father. Francesca and Marcus both straddled the middle ground. Marcus's skin was a bit darker than Francesca's, while her hair was a bit straighter. However, they were of similar height and build and shared the same defined jawlines, almond-shaped brown eyes, and high cheekbones.

“I'm telling you, Elle, it's about precedent. The case in 1986 set the tone for—” came Samuel’s voice.

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