Page 1 of They All Own Me

Chapter 1

Tatum

The sharp cornersof my smile strain my cheeks as I stand beside Thomas, my hand resting delicately on his arm. The Youth Development Center's undefiled walls and fresh paint smell can't mask the staleness of these political events.

"Senator Cope, your dedication to the youth of our city is admirable," a portly businessman says, his gold cufflinks catching the light.

Thomas straightens his already perfect tie. "The future of America rests in their hands. We must invest in their potential."

I squeeze his arm right on cue, playing my part. The words he speaks aren't his – they're from the index cards he's studied that his busty blonde assistant Tammy prepared for him.

"And Mrs. Cope," the businessman's wife chirps, "you must be so proud."

"Beyond words." My practiced response slides out smooth as honey. "Thomas has always had such vision for community development."

His hand covers mine, his grip a fraction too tight. "My wife's being modest. She's the real force behind these initiatives."

A lie. I tried suggesting actual youth programs once. He shut those down faster than his last opponent's campaign.

A group of children rush past us, their sneakers squeaking against the polished floor. Thomas's jaw tightens – a micro-expression I've learned to read over our years together.

"Mr. Senator!" A little girl with braids tugs at his sleeve. "Will you read us a story?"

His perfectly veneered teeth flash. "Of course, sweetheart. What would you like to hear?"

I dig my nails into my palm. Just last week, he'd ranted about the neighbor's kids being too loud. "Can't they keep those damn brats inside?" he'd said.

Thomas settles into a chair, surrounded by cross-legged children. His hands hold the book like it might bite him. The memory of him scheduling my IUD appointment burns in my mind.

"Your body would never recover, no one wants a wife who never sheds the baby weight," he'd said. "Besides, children are messy. They don't fit our image."

"Once upon a time," he reads, his voice projecting just enough for the hovering reporters to catch.

A small boy leans against Thomas's leg. I watch his free hand twitch, wanting to push him away. Instead, he pats the child's head – right when the cameras click.

"Mrs. Cope," a reporter sidles up to me. "Your husband seems so natural with children. Any plans to start a family of your own?"

The question hits like ice water. "We're focused on serving all of America's children right now." The rehearsed answer tastes bitter. "There's so much work to be done."

Thomas catches my eye over the book, a warning in his gaze. I know what that look means: stick to the script, play the part, keep quiet about the truth.

The little girl with braids raises her hand. "But what happens next?"

"Well," Thomas says, checking his Rolex, "sometimes we have to save the ending for another day."

The disappointment on their faces makes my stomach turn. He's already standing, straightening his tie, ready to abandon these kids just like he's abandoned any chance of us having our own.

My gaze drifts to the back of the room where my parents stand, their perfect smiles matching their perfect clothes. Mom's pearls catch the light as she waves, Dad's gold wedding band glinting with each movement. The same ring he wore when he signed away my life ten years ago.

"Such a lovely couple," Mom had said that day, smoothing my white dress. "The Copes are exactly what this family needs."

What this family needs. Not what her seventeen-year-old daughter needed.

When I was younger, I'd dream of a small house on ten acres, with window boxes full of flowers. Maybe in Vermont or Maine. Somewhere with actual seasons, where leaves change colors and snow falls soft and silent. Two kids, maybe three. A garden where I'd grow tomatoes and herbs. A husband who'd kiss me goodbye each morning and mean it.

Instead, I got a brick and mortar prison, that sits in the middle of suburbia where the HOA texts you if your trash cans aren't returned ten minutes after they're picked up. Oh, and artificial plants because Thomas thinks real ones are messy, and a marriage certificate that might as well be a business contract.

"Wonderful reading, son," Dad calls out as Thomas makes his way toward them. His hand finds the small of my back, pushing me forward.

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