Page 2 of They All Own Me

"Richard, Margaret." Thomas nods. "So glad you could make it."

Mom beams at him like he's the second coming. "We wouldn't miss it. Nice touch with the children, that looks good for reelection."

My stomach turns. She knows about the IUD. About how Thomas scheduled the appointment without asking me. She was there when I cried about it.

I watch them laugh together, these three people who decided my future over brandy and cigars, while Mom pretends not to notice how Thomas's fingers dig into my hip.

A sharp jab to my ribs snaps me from my thoughts. Thomas leans in close, his breath hot against my ear.

"Look approachable, for fuck's sake. There are cameras everywhere." His whisper carries an edge sharp enough to cut glass.

I straighten my spine and paste on my camera-ready smile.

The next hour drags like nails across concrete as Thomas works the room. He's in his element, shaking hands and spouting empty promises.

"Senator Cope, your education initiative sounds fascinating." A leggy blonde in a dress that looks like it came from the juniors section touches his arm. Her wedding ring catches the light.

"I'd be happy to discuss it in more detail over coffee at the office sometime." Thomas's voice drops an octave. The same tone he used when he first met me.

I just sink deeper into the plush chair along the wall, watching him charm his way through the crowd.

The photographer circles like a shark, his camera clicking away. I cross my ankles, adjust my pearls, maintain the pose Thomas's image consultant drilled into me.

"Mrs. Cope?" A waiter appears at my elbow. "The Senator asked me to bring you water."

Not wine. Never wine at public events. "Can't have you getting loose-lipped," He had said after last year's Christmas gala.

"Thank you." I accept the glass, careful not to smudge it with fingerprints.

I take a sip of water and wonder if the other wives notice how he treats me. If they care. Or if they're all just playing their parts too.

I glance at my watch, the diamonds catching the harsh fluorescent light. Fifty-seven minutes. The seconds tick by like molasses dripping from a spoon.

"Your dress is absolutely divine," another politician's wife gushes, her voice high and artificial. "Valentino?"

"Carolina Herrera." I smooth nonexistent wrinkles from my skirt. "Thomas has impeccable taste."

More like Thomas's stylist has impeccable taste. The same one who laid out my entire wardrobe after burning my favorite jeans and t-shirts.

A photographer approaches, his camera hanging around his next. "Mrs. Cope, would you mind joining the Senator? Perfect lighting by the banner."

My heels click against the floor as I cross the room. Each step feels like walking through quicksand.

"There's my girl." Thomas's arm snakes around my waist, pulling me close. His cologne mingles with someone else's perfume. "Smile for the cameras, sweetheart."

I bare my teeth in what I hope passes for joy, counting down the minutes until I can drop this act and retreat to my wing of the house. Fifty-two minutes and counting.

The leather seat of the limo creaks as I slide in, my heels clicking against the floor mat. Thomas follows, loosening his tie with one hand while dismissing the driver's attempt to close the door.

"What the fuck was that in there?" His voice cuts through the air-conditioned silence.

I readjust my skirt, buying time. "I'm not sure what you mean."

"Don't play dumb, Tatum. You were completely checked out. Mrs. Henderson asked you about the charity gala twice."

The partition slides up, giving us privacy. Lucky driver.

"I answered her questions." My fingers trace the stitching on my Hermès bag – the one Thomas bought to apologize for missing our anniversary.

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