Page 6 of The Senator's Rival

The senator was answering questions about her education policies in one of her usual charming, charismatic performances. She exuded the perfect balance of intelligence, confidence, and dignity. Her warm brown eyes twinkled with humor, crinkling at the edges as her mouth quirked into a faint smile. It all seemed effortless. Like the woman just showed up to these things without any prep, said whatever popped into her head, and somehow it was always exactly the right thing. It always sounded passionate, well-reasoned, and convincing. She was maddening.

“Well,” said Charlotte, the senior political strategist sitting beside Margot, “the senator managed to dodge the question about her stance on small-business regulations. She doesn't want to admit that their platform would hurt independent workers. We should press her on that during the debate.”

Margot nodded thoughtfully, tapping her nails against the edge of the mahogany table. Her staff scrolled through their notes and laptops, brows furrowed as they looked for anything else to pick apart. The cameras caught a brief glimpse of Francesca glancing down and adjusting her microphone. Margot's gaze tracked the movement, noticing her steady hands and long fingers. Those hands looked strong and capable, yet elegant--perfectly suited to handle whatever life threw at her, even if she might break a nail in the process. Hands that were trained to hold authority with a firm grip, yet she could touch gently enough to win over hearts.

“Mrs. Smith, what do you think?” asked Michael, the chief communications advisor. “Do you think she'll try and use her family name to distract from her policy failures again?”

Margot blinked rapidly and snapped back to attention, straightening in her seat with a sudden intake of breath. Why in the world was she wasting time thinking about Francesca Thurston’s hands? She cleared her throat, embarrassed, tossing her hair behind her shoulder. Ever since the military ball, Margot had found herself feeling oddly antsy when her thoughts drifted to her opponent. There was something about that smooth caramel skin in that navy blue gown, and the conviction in those dark brown eyes?—

Jesus. Get it together, woman.

This was entirely unacceptable. These strange and completely irrational reactions were throwing her off her stride.

“She usually does,” Margot finally replied after a moment, mentally willing her cheeks not to flush. “Her only real strength is name recognition, because of her family's legacy. Beyond some fancy talking points about gay rights and feminism, it's all the same vaguely uplifting mush with no actionable steps. So, yeah, she'll pivot to some nonsense about building bridges and making America prosperous with diversity just like her grandfather did.”

That earned her a chuckle from the people sitting around the table. They nodded in agreement, jotting down notes. In the corner, William took a sip of his coffee, momentarily distracted by something on his phone. Probably Tom again. Margot generally had no problem with her husband's paramour—they had agreed when they got married that it was all for show. They had both pursued other relationships during the ensuing decades—but this one had become increasingly obnoxious lately.

Or maybe it was just because Margot had been too busy the last few years to have any fun herself, which left her feeling irritated and restless. It wasn't something she could risk these days. Tom had been in their orbit for long enough that the media didn't blink an eye, but if she started prancing around town with some pretty girl on her arm, it'd attract scrutiny. People might start asking questions. They wouldn't jump straight to 'lesbian', but they'd get there eventually. Even the slightest whiff of suspicion was enough to bring everything crashing down on top of her. If Margot couldn't maintain her image as a model of traditional virtue, then she’d be done for.

So she'd buried that part of her years ago and she had no regrets about it. But right now, Francesca Thurston was on the screen talking about how liberating it was to be able to be herself, to live her authentic truth, and not have that truth overshadow her political accomplishments. Some crap about progress and equality. It made Margot want to stab the pen she was currently writing with through the television screen and directly into Francesca’s chest.

That wasn't fair. It wasn't. She'd had to compromise and suppress everything about herself to get where she was, but Francesca and her army of bleeding-heart progressives got to strut around with their rainbow flags and openly admit to sleeping with women, and they still got elected. If not for the Thurston family's esteemed legacy, Francesca would have been booted out of politics before she even set foot on the Senate floor. Any other openly queer woman would never even be able to dream of becoming president. They all had to hide and play it safe. To lie and get married, just to keep up appearances.

The pen snapped in half in Margot’s hands. Its sharp crack cut through the quiet murmur of conversation, and all heads around the table swiveled toward her. For a moment, all she did was stare at the ink trickling down her fingers--a thin blue line staining the white starched fabric of her sleeve. Then an assistant broke the silence, rushing to clean up the mess and fetch towels and a fresh pen. Margot simply rolled up her sleeves and shook the worst of the damage off, taking a deep breath.

“This woman drives me insane,” she said with a sheepish shrug, shaking her head as she wiped the smudges from her hand. “So how do we play this? What angles do we work, and whom do we target first?”

They spent the better part of the next hour strategizing and debating possible lines of attack in the upcoming debate. The obvious solution was to go on the offensive. Francesca Thurston was all smiles and pretty words, but with no substance. They needed to highlight that. Call out every policy decision, every broken promise and change of heart, every contradictory statement Francesca had ever made. Show that she was indecisive, inconsistent, and unfit for high office. That she was driven solely by personal preference and emotion--rather than by concrete plans for growth and change.

“There's got to be some kind of stain on that wholesome image of hers,” Margot commented with a sigh. “She can't be as clean as she pretends to be. Nobody is. What've we got?”

“Nothing right now, ma'am,” Charlotte replied, glancing through the notes on her laptop. “Not even a drunk photo from college. This lady really is squeaky clean.”

“That's ridiculous,” Margot said coolly. “There's something out there and I need to know what it is. Find it.”

The staffers immediately went to work, combing through files and records of every single statement and public appearance Francesca Thurston ever made. Satisfied, Margot rose to her feet and brushed herself off, signaling to William that it was time to move along. He nodded and stood, gathering up his things and following her out into the hallway. They passed through the lobby, giving a few perfunctory waves and nods as they passed campaign workers in cubicles, heading out to where the car waited for them.

Once there, William checked his phone again. Margot rolled her eyes theatrically, leaning back against the leather seat and crossing her arms.

“Really, Will? You're a grown man. You can go five minutes without texting your boyfriend,” she drawled, with a touch of bitterness.

He looked up at her and there was something in his eyes that hadn't been there a minute ago, before he'd gotten on that phone. His brows furrowed with just a hint in concern, a little crease forming between them. He didn't say anything at first, just studied her for a few moments with a frown. She arched her eyebrows expectantly, waiting for him to respond. The driver was already pulling onto the road, steering them toward the airport.

“My boyfriend isn't the problem right now, Margie,” he answered slowly, handing her the cellphone with a concerned frown. “Have a read.”

Confused, she took the device and gave him a questioning glance. He simply shrugged, tucking his arms across his chest and nodding once again toward the screen. She tilted her head and glanced at the email in front of her, and her breath caught in her throat. With cold, clammy fingers, Margot clicked the attachment below the message and a grainy, pixelated photo filled the display. Her face, much younger than it was now, gazed back at her, her body draped over another woman in a state of undress. Her lips were pressed to the other woman's collarbone, her hands entangled in silky black hair.

“Who the hell sent this?” Margot growled furiously. She tried to keep her hands from trembling as she scrolled back up to read the message once again. It contained no identifying information or indication of the sender, only a single short phrase: 'Remember me?'

“It's a throwaway email,” he replied, “but I assume the culprit is whomever this woman is, right?”

He had the audacity to sound sardonic. She glared at him, eyes narrowing dangerously. “William.”

He raised his hands, chuckling bitterly under his breath. “What do you want me to say? I don't know anything more than you do,” he replied defensively, shaking his head. “Who is that girl, anyway? Doesn't look like any of the ones I remember you going around with.”

Margot exhaled sharply, rubbing her temples irritably. “God, I don't know,” she muttered in frustration, raking her fingers through her hair. “Probably some drunk hookup back in college. I thought we'd already paid off everyone who might give us trouble.”

“Well, guess not,” her husband replied drily, earning him another sharp look. “It's fine, Margot. We'll just cut her a check, have her sign an NDA, and it'll go away. Just like we always do. Nothing we haven't done a hundred times before.”

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