Page 4 of The Love You Fight For
ONE
Present Day
“Good morning.”
I force a grin that I’m certain no one believes as I push my way through my father’s D.C. office space.
“Good morning, Ms. Harper,” one of the volunteers greets with mock cheeriness.
I don’t acknowledge them.
Instead, I set my empty latte cup on the table in front of them and walk past without a word. Everyone knows I hate being called Ms. Harper. That’s why they do it. But honestly, I don’t blame them. Why should they be nice to me? I’m horrible to them.
I breeze through the glass doors into the full conference room and plaster on a more believable smile. It’s what’s expected, of course. I’m the doting, supportive daughter. A Harper through and through. I don’t bother surveying the room. It’s always the same faces. Instead, I zero in on my father and bat my eyelashes in a shitty display of contrition.
“I’m so sorry I’m late,” I lie sweetly. “I was helping an elderly man with his groceries.”
My father’s eye twitches. It’s the only sign on his grinning facethat he’s irritated, and I doubt anyone notices it but me. I saunter up to the head of the table where he’s standing and take my seat to the left of him.
“Quite all right, Samantha,” he says smoothly. “Now we can get started.”
After one last imperceptible glare in my direction, my father faces the room with his megawatt, slimy politician smile. I still don’t understand how it fools anyone, but I suppose that’s the power of carefully curated talking points, bleached white teeth, and conservative Botox injections.
“Thank you so much for coming in early today, everyone.”
He claps his hands in front of his chest and makes intentional eye contact with every person in the room. The excitement in his expression is so convincing, even I almost believe it. I have to hand it to him. He’s a brilliant actor. If career politicians could win Oscars, he’d give Hollywood a run for its money. I have to actively fight to suppress my grimace.
“I have an announcement that I’m sure won’t surprise anyone”—rehearsed chuckle, perfectly positioned pause for dramatic effect—“but after discussing it with my family”—theatrical loving glance at me—“we’ve decided that the time has finally arrived”—another dramatic pause as the energy in the room pulses—“to make my presidential bid.”
The room erupts, and though I was expecting it, I still startle at the noise. My smile is immediate. My applause doesn’t falter. I stand and embrace my father in a Hallmark-worthy hug, then I sit back in my seat and attempt to ignore the chorus of congratulations that fills the conference room. I work to maintain my innocent smile. I keep it from reflecting the way I actually feel.
Of course, I knew this announcement was coming, though the “discussion” my father mentioned was actually only a single declarative statement spokenatmy mother and me two nights ago. He’d summoned us to the house in Franklin for it, and while I was irritated to have to drive back from D.C. on short notice, my anger was nothing in comparison to my mother’s. She was forced to leave her lover in Saint-Tropez for something that could have easily beenhandled via text message for all the care my father put into it. I’m guessing he sent my brother a text, though, since Chase hasn’t returned from his “sabbatical and missionary work” in South Africa.
“Thank you, thank you,” my father says jovially, then waves his hands, gesturing for everyone to sit back down. They do. Like obedient little dogs. “I’m so glad to see you’re all just as passionate and excited as I am about this next step.”
I tune out as he continues to prattle on about the workwehave to do. The groundwehave to cover. The “good”wewill accomplish. Blah blah blah campaign promises blah blah blah. My eyes start to glaze over the longer he grandstands, but then movement on the opposite end of the table catches my attention. It takes a breath for my brain to register what my eyes are seeing, but when it finally clicks, the scowl I’ve been fighting breaks through.
Ashton Cartwright.
Son of the Honorable Andrew Cartwright. Pruitt Boys Prep School valedictorian. Former fraternity vice president. Princeton University graduate. Slimeball.
What the fuck is he doing here? Well, right now he seems to be trying to peer down the front of the finance manager’s blouse, butwhythe fuck is he here?
Ashton and my older brother were friends, but Chase is in South Africa, and last I heard, Ashton was clerking for some judge in New York with hopes of following in his daddy’s footsteps. Ashton is six years older than me—thirty-two to my twenty-six—and he used to visit our house when he was on breaks from school. He and Chase would attend parties together. More than once, I stole cocaine from him—afterhe bought it from Chase—just because I could. Once I walked in on him fucking our housekeeper. He saw me but didn’t stop. Just winked at me as he pounded into her. I almost vomited on the spot.
Objectively speaking, Ashton Cartwright is attractive. Perfectly coiffed blond hair. Crystal blue eyes. Straight white teeth. Flawless skin. He’s conventionally hot. A trust fund daughter’s wet dream.But once he starts talking, he automatically becomes a face only a mother’s Facebook friends could love.
When he catches me sneering, I swear his eyes twinkle with predatory glee. I narrow mine back when he drops his gaze to my chest. He’s so fucking gross. Then my father’s hand comes down on his shoulder, so I turn my attention to the devil in charge.
“I’d like you all to meet my new campaign manager, Ashton Cartwright.”
My jaw drops before I can stop it, and I know Ashton sees by the way his lip twitches with humor. I scan the room for the first time since arriving and, sure enough, my father’s former campaign manager is nowhere to be found. I bet her husband found out about the affair and my father paid him off. Tying up loose ends before the presidential run, I guess.
Is Ashton evenqualifiedfor this job? I know he went to an Ivy League law school, but I had no idea he was into politics now. He’s been off my radar foryears,and I feel off-kilter that I could have missed this. My father never lets me in on his plans—he attempts to hide everything from me—but usually, I’m pretty good at keeping myself informed. This development has more than caught me off guard. I don’t like that I am missing things. It makes me worry about what other bigger things I’m not seeing.
My father drones on, and I school my face back into placidity. I keep my eyes on his chin, on the small scar there from a bicycle accident when he was a child. It’s one of the few human things about him. Proof he can feel pain. Proof he’s just as breakable as the rest of us.
When he stops talking and everyone begins to stand, I follow suit. They all file out of the conference room to “get to work,” and I close the distance between myself and my father. And Ashton Cartwright.
